Christmas, , I go home to Washington, D. Sit down. We have something to tell you. My parents are not formal people—no one sits in the living room. I am standing in the kitchen. The dog is looking up at me.
My birth mother was young and single, my father older and married, with children of his own. My mother starts to cry. In my dreams, my birth mother has always been a goddess—the queen of queens, the C.
Movie-star beautiful, extraordinarily competent, she can take care of anyone and anything. She has made a fabulous life for herself as ruler of the world, except for one missing link— me. Her name is Helene. I have changed some names and locations to protect privacy.
I call the lawyer. I am asking for the story of my life. There is an urgency to my request; I feel I have to hurry and ask everything I want to know. As suddenly as she has arrived, she could be gone again. Ten days later, her letter arrives with no fanfare.
Your identity has arrived. Her language is oddly formal, less than artful, grammatically flawed. I read it simultaneously fast and slowly, wanting to take it in, unable to take it in. I read it and then read it again. What is she telling me? At the time I was carrying this little girl it was not proper for a girl to have a child out of wedlock.
