The Postcard

“Why did my mother give me up?” I asked bravely.

“Honey, maybe she couldn’t afford to keep you. Maybe she was unmarried and didn’t have enough money to support you.”

My stomach ached. Was adoption good or bad? Should I have been proud or ashamed? I surely didn’t feel that this was a fortunate circumstance, and realized that being adopted meant that someone originally rejected me. For years to come, the condition of being adopted would no longer be a joy, but rather a Scarlet “A” that would be stamped forever into my consciousness.

“We got you through a private attorney, Michael. His name was Raymond Demaree. He was the nicest old man, Michael. I’ll never forget those black olives he gave us when we signed the papers. We ate them right there at his desk. The doctor who delivered you was Dr. William Fitzgerald. He was an old man also. Here,” she continued, handing me a crinkled postcard. “This is where you were born. I saved it for you.”

The postcard was a photograph of Community Hospital. The building was rather drab, with no trees surrounding the pale brick structure. Scribbled on the back was Mom’s handwriting, ‘Where Michael was born.’ I couldn’t believe it. She must have planned on giving me these papers since the day I was born. She had waited until that special time–today.

From Adopted Like Me, Chosen to Search for a Birthmother by Michael C. Watson.

Community Hospital
Community Hospital in 1958.
Community Hospital in 1975.
Community Hospital in 1975.
Community Hospital, today.
Community Hospital, today.


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