THE WIND PHONE
My Father Refused to Acknowledge Me as His Daughter
He disinherited me just the same
Yet again. Another dagger pierced my broken heart, and more shame poured into my soul. I made a discovery which I will share with you in this essay, but let’s take it from the top, shall we?
I was adopted. My mother, who carried me for eight months, the only voice, smell, and physical touch (in utero) that I knew disappeared into the void as she relinquished me at birth and thrust me into an unfamiliar world. I was an infant who learned with my first breath that the world is cruel, unkind, and that I was not wanted. I published a story in May 2022 titled “Everything I Am”.
“Everything I Am”
Mom. Everything I am you helped me to be. You left me at birth, abandoned, traumatized and alone. You taught me that I am replaceable, disposable. You taught me that I am unworthy of love. You taught me that I do not matter. You taught me that I am not safe or protected. You taught me that living with a lie is paramount. You taught me to be grateful for any scraps of affection. You taught me what love means. You loved me so much that you gave me away. I am adopted.
I didn’t uncover the identities of my birth parents until I was 59 years old. My mother was dead, but my father was still alive. I was conflicted about how, when, or if I should reach out. I decided to take a plunge into the depth of my trauma and made contact. I contacted my mother’s widower. He refused to believe that his wife had borne an illegitimate child. The conversation ended before it got started.
My father, on the other hand, rejected me in a different way. He was a heartless man and his actions (while alive and dead) cut me to the core. He was a former district attorney, so it is rather fitting that his direct hurt came from legal actions.
I contacted him with a certified letter. I made a simple request in the most unassuming way for a conversation.
He was silent and sat on this news for a year; then the pandemic hit and waged war on humankind. I decided it was now or never to politely force his hand. Even though I was still terrified, I dialed his number. I got his answering machine. Turns out that would be the closest connection I would have with him, his voice — for ten seconds.
I left a short message, and soon after, I got a call from the attorney he had hired to represent him. He damned me for the insinuation that his client was my birth father, which would not be confirmed nor denied. The conversation was well-scripted and meant to hurt me at the deepest level. What had I ever done?
How could he have been so heartless, cruel, and afraid? What was he hiding? What did he know? He died a bit later. That was several years ago, but the hurt is forever with me. And now, even after his death, he has managed to jab at my shame once again.
I found his will in the county archives. He and his lawyer revised it one day after the conversation. They added the following passage:
“specifically exclude, omit and disinherit and make no provision herein for any person claiming to be an heir or beneficiary of mine, whether known or unknown to me, other than such persons who are specifically named herein.”
For added impact, here is a screenshot of the words I am referring to.
I had stressed in my letter that I didn’t want to bother him, upset him, or want anything. Well, anything more than an acknowledgement and a hug.
Perhaps he knew I was his daughter, his very first daughter. Hell, he disinherited me for God’s sake.
It sounds like that action was more of a confession; that perhaps in an indirect way he was confirming, not denying that I was his daughter.
I live with the atrocity of his actions, and I don’t understand what I did to deserve this. How could he have been so callous and hateful?
Now I live with the heavy shame of being unwanted, rejected, from both birth parents. I have interpreted their actions to mean that I am a dark, shameful secret. A secret they both took to their graves.
As I sit with the passage he added to his final will, the pain flows through my body, tears pour down my face, and blood from my nose. Does the nose hold grief? I haven’t moved for three hours, except to grab tissues. Is this what shock feels like? Everything and nothing at the same time?
A friend validated my emotions with this sentence, “adoption is a lifelong journey”. This pain continues to pelt hail upon me, perhaps it will last the rest of my life.
