Sometimes it only takes a few words to make you realize you really don't know a person.
I remember every detail of the moment that changed everything. We stood in the living room, surrounded by orange and brown floral furniture and wood paneling. The console TV loomed silently over the room, its black screen still. There was no sense in filling the home with any sort of life as we were just running quickly into the trailer to grab a few of my things before returning to my uncle's house. I stayed there for several months while my mother was hospitalized (a story - or ten - for another time) and my father was deployed for the first Gulf War. Fourteen-year old me decided to listen to the messages on the answering machine.
Yes. Answering machine. It's hard to believe, but there was a time before electronic voicemail when calls were sometimes handled by contraptions similar to tape recorders. (And don't ask me what a "tape recorder" is because, really? Just get off of my lawn.) As I hit play, my uncle stood patiently waiting for message after message to finish. Bill collectors and salesmen and a few out-of-the-know people had left random words that meant nothing to me.
Then came The Message.
"Hi. This is Carol of Lutheran Social Services. I'm trying to reach Kathryn as I have information about the son she surrendered in Minot, North Dakota in 1970. He would really like to speak with you, but I need your permission to pass on this phone number. Please return my call . . . "
As the message ended, silence fell heavy. I was naive at the age of 14, but I knew what she was referencing. I mean, I didn't know, but I understood the words.
I looked at my uncle. His face told the story of someone who had just heard words that were forcing him to realize a huge portion of his childhood was a lie. He was the youngest of the siblings and should have known. Yet, somehow, he didn't.
He had no idea that his older sister had been pregnant, given birth, and relinquished custody of a baby boy while living with their parents.
I had no idea that my mother had given birth to a child before she gave birth to me.
Details were filled in later, but not until after my mother passed away sixteen years ago this week. She never returned that call, instead choosing to take her secret to the grave with her. Or so she thought. We knew. We never spoke a word about it, but we knew.
Her entire life had been a lie.
