LETTER FROM A BIRTHFATHER

Now that my story is out, lots of people are sharing their stories with me. One is a writer friend, who is also a birthfather. He emailed me this letter to the daughter who found him (somewhat abbreviated here) and, when I asked, gave me permission to share as I see fit.

I am so touched by this, and thought you might be too. (The names and some of the places have been changed or left out.)


Dear Daughter:

Your mother was Ann. We met at a party in January 1963; I was barely 21, an out-of-control wild man; Jane 20, 21 in June.

I was a few months past divorce.

A very old and close friend rented a house in Minneapolis, Not such a nice neighborhood.

I spotted a pretty blond about my age talking to some friends in the corner. I asked her to dance. Her refusal can still make me smile.

“What? Dance with you? I’m busy here, and besides, you’re being rude. You look like someone with class and manners, but now I see how wrong a look can be.” My smile didn’t work.

“Ah, c’mon, it’s just a dance. And even if you’re a bad dancer, I won’t let anyone laugh at you.”

“Whoa. Dancing with you would make everyone in this room laugh. Please go away.”

But from across the room we’d catch each other’s look. A Nina Simone song is still my favorite: “Where Can I Go Without You?” Something slow and mellow. She finally said, “Okay, but just a dance.” Yet she snuggled in my arms as we swayed to the music, maybe all the moving we did, but I remember her head on my shoulder, and we were oblivious to the chaotic party-time voices around us. Somewhere in the song I looked at her and kissed her. So very gently. Our eyes never closed. I knew something was happening here.

Remember Nina Simone. Get a copy of “Forbidden Fruit.” Therein lies the song.

And so it began. She was more than unique; I can still see and hear her laugh.

At the age of 21 years and six months, on December 22, 1963, she delivered you at General Hospital, at 11:34 p.m.

She had been living at a “home” for unwed mothers-to-be in a very elegant part of the west side. The elegance was only cosmetic in that house, inside and out. Although she was the only resident besides the married couple, the man of the house had the habit of calling “the girls” whores and sluts, and it was only through the compassion of the wife that such arrangements were made to help these women, who had no place to go.

I had lost my drivers license, and so took a couple of buses to the house, several times a week. The guy wouldn’t let me see her in his house, so I’d knock on the door, wait on the porch and out she’d come in a warm coat and a warmer smile. We’d walk along the creek separating Lake of the Isles and Cedar Lake, a very upscale neighborhood. We promised that one day we’d live around here. But first we had an immense decision to work through: Would we keep you or opt for adoption? I had a decent job, but dead-end, which I hated, with no prize at the end of a working life. She would spend the first few months caring for you. Nearly broke, a place to live could only be a brownstone high-rise.

Arm in arm we walked, with brave smiles. We knew the choice would have a slim chance of being the right one, but still… the decision came hard, but in that circumstance, kicking it all around, it always came out sideways but seemed like all we had. After much deliberation, she arranged to sign the adoption papers.

She did not have time to call me that December 22nd. She awoke in a wet bed, pains not far apart. You wouldn’t wait, in a hurry to get yourself out into this world. I could never be certain, but think, if you had known what lay ahead, you would have wondered why all that rush.

The kind lady got Ann bundled up, with her “overnight bag,” and loaded her into a cab. Next stop General. Alone, Rita moved through the lobby and to Admitting. I have so many times wondered where that kind of courage comes from.

What did she go through? How did she do it? She never told me.

Next morning, 7:30, her best friend called me at work with the news. “Ann had a little girl, seven pounds, six ounces. Hello?”

I fumbled the phone to the floor but snatched it up, talked for a minute – what did I say? – then punched out with my time card, and jumped a bus to the hospital. Ann smiled when I came to her ward and hugged her.

Did I want to see you? “What? Let’s go.”

Robed up, she slid into her slippers and led me down the dingy hallway to the maternity viewing area. And there, three cribs back, lay this beautiful package, all in pink. We held hands and stared for a long while. I took in your features, snapped a mental picture, and put the image into my memory bank. Minutes later we turned and walked back down that tired and cold corridor, to her sleeping area. Stunned speechless, I wanted to say something positive, but couldn’t find it.

After much pleading with the staff, they decided we could see you, hold you. “Just for a few minutes. You understand.”

A nurse brought you over. Fussing, fists clenched. Hungry. We were allowed, each of us, to hold you one time, for a few minutes. Suddenly the adoption agency lady burst up and whisked you away. No emotion on her face, save business and displeasure; but plenty on Ann's. I stood helpless, like the fool I was. I can never know what Ann's state of emotion had to be at that moment. All I still see is her sad and crying eyes. But how strong she was! Still, you were gone.

There are of course many Kaleidoscopes to twirl, countless decisions, turns to take in a life. What’s so important to remember is that split-second decisions made today can change your life and the lives of a thousand people. No, this wasn’t anything split-second, but the guilt must be dealt with forever. I can’t un-ring the bell that tolled but I can comprehend the bitterness of “not being worthy enough to be kept; taken from a hospital, put into a crib by strangers who are to care for you and shape your future.”

To put more weight on it, I understand that the first “family” let you go soon thereafter and that you learned, whenever the phone rang, that you might be packing up again, leaving another place to God wouldn’t say where. Thank you, Baby Jesus, for the Smith family in (city removed). Meeting Doris was a revelation. I knew she’d been a fabulous mother and had done a good job with your upbringing. There before me now stands the proof.

There is a God.

Ann was discharged on Christmas Day. I again borrowed a car and we drove to her sister and brother-in-law’s small house on the southwest side of town. A breathtaking area, especially in the winter. There we exchanged gifts and opened a bottle of wine, groping for a toast. Soft, new snow began to fall. Ann and I dragged on our heavy coats and trudged through the streets, blinking back the flakes. Smiles were tight but we said we had each other. Somehow the light snowfall, so picaresque, took some of the sting out of the event. We promised that we’d get through it, we’d stay together; the future was ours.

About a month later I gave her a ring. How bizzare. Why now?

Being engaged does not promise you forever. People say, “John has a song for everything,” and that is clearly true. Music is the international language, and a song by, say, Mose Allison, has pulled me through lotsa dark nights. So it was with the Judy Collins tune: “I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm, your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm. Your eyes are dark with sorrow . . . hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.”

But Ann had changed overnight. She now looked through Faraway Eyes. And so it had come to distances. We were going to walk around the corner together, but life got in the way. The man in the mirror won’t look at me, so I have a good hunch why it all didn’t quite make it all the way to forever. And, maybe worse still, that you and your mother never made it into each other’s futures is more than tragic.

I never again saw her after we split. I went to school and started a career. She married and had two sons.

Ten years later. her friend somehow found me at a hotel in New York, said Ann was dying and wanted badly to see me.

I flew back to Minneapolis, drove to the hospital, fidgeted in the elevator, and turned the corner into her room. But she was gone, gone. And her funeral was a thing nobody can shake. Dark in the winter, February in MN is not where to find yourself. And not under this kind of tragedy.

You never got to meet your mother; pancreatic cancer took her at the way-too-young age of 32. She’s buried at (cemetery), a beautiful, shady place to rest. I took you there, showed you the plot and then disappeared. I recall you resting by the site, talking for a long while, then leaving a bouquet of white flowers. Silence was an unwanted passenger on the drive out those cold iron gates, but there he sat.

I don’t believe in miracles, I rely upon them. Eight years ago the phone jumped. A voice said, “I’m Janet, the daughter you and Ann gave up for adoption.”

“Wait a minute. Let me sit down, then you say that again.”

And so it began. We’ve been father and daughter ever since, and I wonder what I’d be doing if you weren’t in my life. Duh. Don’t know how you found me or where you put together the courage to make that call. Thank you.

With good luck and best wishes for the long and curvy road ahead. And remember: the rearview mirror of a life, unlike that of a car, can see back for miles, years. And bad choices will take you on. Make the good ones.

Be happy, be well.

Love always, your dad