The Story of Me - Part 1

I always felt different.

I would ask my mother if I was adopted and she’d deny it vehemently. In fact, she'd be completely offended and insulted.

I grew up with just my mom and I have three older siblings, who were perfectly timed pregnancies, two years apart. All are tall, and striking, with thin lips, and thin noses, and they all look very much alike. The perfect family portrait. I always wanted to Sharpie myself into their childhood photos. I am ten years younger, Yes, ten. YEARS. I am too short to reach the top shelf at the grocery store without using the shelves below as a ladder, with big lips, a round nose, thick hair, and giant eyes. They are all incredibly talented, both musically and artistically. I can't even whistle, or trace a stick man.

Growing up, I heard “You look nothing like anyone in your family” which only amplified my sense of being different. I desperately wanted siblings closer to my age. I envied anyone with a brother or sister at home. I don't really recall living with my siblings at all, just snippets of memories which are created by stories told over the years. I do remember wanting my mother to adopt Webster. You know the child actor? Emmanuel Lewis. Yeah, him. I longed for a Webster. I cried and begged my mother to please, please adopt Webster for me. Although, in looking back, had she adopted the fictional non-Caucasian Webster, I still would not have looked like my sibling. I really didn't think that through. I just wanted someone to fight with. Someone to annoy me. Someone to play with. Someone to keep me from feeling all alone.

Most of my life was spent with just my mother, an always struggling, always working single parent. Many a boyfriend came and went; none leaving a positive mark on my life. Some leaving pretty negative marks. We moved from the country to the city when I was in grade three, and my siblings stayed behind. I adored my mother growing up, although she was not around much, and she made some pretty poor choices. I adored her because she was all I had and I always knew she loved me. As an adult, she became my best friend, and my biggest fan. I could have called her and said "Mom, I murdered someone." And she'd say "It's okay, baby." And then she'd help me bury the body. She was funny, brave, smart, and beautiful. If you wanted the entire family to know something, but you didn't have the time or energy to tell them yourself, you just told Mom. And within minutes, they all knew. Strangers at the mall knew.

Normally, she could not keep a secret to save her life.

But she kept one secret. For 18 long years.

I think she kept it so long that even she no longer knew what was true.

I went away to university, fresh out of high school. Having no idea who I was apart from my mother. I felt lost. When I was home visiting one weekend, I asked my mother one simple question. I have absolutely no idea what we were talking about at the time. I don't recall why felt compelled to ask in that moment. I remember only my question, and her answer.  

I asked my mother: “Dad isn’t my father, is he?”

"No”, was all she said.

And with that one word, my entire life was changed.