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Adoptive & Foster Families

Taproot issue 45 - September 2003

Growing Up Adopted… Without Knowing It

By Tiffany Issacson

Was it different for you to tell your child he or she had been adopted? Would it be hard to hear that you were adopted? Imagine how I felt. I was twenty before my mother told me about my adoption. No, that wasn’t a typo. I was a grown woman when I heard the truth.

Most people are shocked to here my story. They always have lots of questions. What did I do? Why did my parents wait so long? Am I still speaking to them? For me, the most amazing part of all was that it wasn’t truly such a shock to me. I knew in my heart all along. Maybe I should begin at the beginning to explain

I was adopted at two days old. Until about two years old, I knew that I was adopted. My parents talked to me about it openly, and intended to continue to be open. But when I turned two, my parents saw other adoptive families having difficulty dealing with the issues surrounding adoption. To keep me from having the same difficulties, they decided that they decided that they would change the story.

I’m certain in those early years seemed like the easier choice. They worried about the stigma that might come being adopted child, one of wedlock in the early seventies, when that sort of thing still scandalous. They wanted me to have become natural for them. The inevitable pains that come with being avoided, if only temporarily.

Telling themselves it was the best thing for me, they pretend I was their child by birth. They both say they intended to tell me the truth later on, but still can’t believe that waiting eighteen years was what they had in mind. The thought of confessing must have been so difficult that they avoided it. Maybe the right time never came along; maybe they wanted to deny the truth.

All our friends and family agreed to keep the silence. That was one of the issues that was hardest to handle. Can you imagine growing up with everyone else knowing who you really are, but not you? I felt like a fool, like I should have seen it all along.

There were plenty of clues, such as the way that the numbers just didn’t add up when we talked about dates of birth and marriage. A cousin once nearly blurted the truth out at a party. And then there was the time we did blood typing in high school biology. Lucky for them I sever thought to ask their blood types. I ignored these things, because maybe I didn’t want to see the truth. But the truth stayed with me. All my life I knew I was different. I don’t look like anyone else, I have my own interest, and I have always sort of just gone my own way. I also seemed there was a large family secret…about me.

When I was twelve, I snooped around in my mother’s top secret filing box, the one that was off-limits and usually locked. I found an envelope sealed with tape, and came dangerously close to opening it. Eight years later, my mother opened it for me, and showed me my adoption papers. I think that day was one of the hardest things for my mother. She asked me to come to their house, but wouldn’t say why.

When I got there, she showed me a picture of myself at just a few days old. She said it was the earliest picture they had of me, and broke down crying. She couldn’t speak. I asked her if I was adopted, and she could only nod, sobbing uncontrollably.

I took her face in my hands, and I still think often of that moment. It was like watching her fall off a cliff. Over and over again, I told her that it didn’t matter, that I didn’t care. She was my mother. Dad was my father. Finally, my words seemed to sink in, and we talked about if for the first time since I was a toddler.

From that point on, we discussed it openly. That was important to me, after years of secrecy. We drafted a letter together to the agency asking for information about my birth family. After living with lies so long, I had to know everything about my background- who my birth parents were, why they gave me up, how they felt about now, and basic medical information. My parents supported me through the search process. I told them all about my contact with my birth family, and they’ve even met some of my birth relatives.

Despite this, the years surrounding that day were very difficult for me. I don’t know that I’ll ever truly understand why they lied to me. I suppose its natural to question their motives and doubt their integrity. Years later another lie cut me to the core, and made me realize that they might never truly understand how much they hurt me. Trust will always be an issue for our family.

But at the very heart of it, we are a family, and our love is unconditional. Just as I will always be their baby, they will always be my parents. My birth family is special to me, a part of me, but my parents are my real family. Family doesn’t just come from blood; it comes from years spent together, from love and understanding given daily doses.

Now that I have a child of my own, I understand that even more. I can see how hard it must have been for them, both when they chose to lie, and when they chose to tell the truth. I can imagine the sleepless nights they spent agonizing over their decisions.

My son knows the truth. He’s still a toddler, but alongside the picture on the wall of my adoption family. He’s met birth relatives, and the adoration is mutual. We’ll talk openly about it when he’s ready. Being adopted makes me special, and having the family that I love makes me blessed. Hopefully, he’ll grow up appreciating the family he has, and understanding how important honestly, forgiveness, and love are to us.

What should other adoptive parents take away from this? If would be easy to condemn my parent’s decision and leave it at that. But there is a lesson to be learned from it. As a new parent myself, I know all too well about the self-doubt that can creep up on you. I can well image that adoption might further complicate the situation. When a parent makes a mistake, even a large one like, or course we should make it right with our kids. Of course we should struggle to do better in the future. Most importantly, we should keep in mind that the same unconditional love that we bear for our children bear for us, be they by blood or by adoption.  

(Reprinted from ROOTS & WINGS, Nov.2002, and COAC Collection May/June2003)