Just to avoid confustion, I am not saying “fuck you” to my wonderful adoptive parents in Buffalo. No, this is to the ditzy girl from Auburn, New York who had unprotected sex sometime in 1965, the end result being me.
Why should I say “fuck you?” Yeah, I should be lucky that you didn’t abort me. That’s not relevant, though. You see, when you go looking for the kid that you put up for adoption, you should be prepared for the consequences, the Pandora’s box that may open. Especially considering that you eventually married my birth father, and had three other kids … two sons, and a daughter.
Met you. Reunion went wonderfully, on the surface. Met your sons, my brothers. Went well, although I felt a bit awkward. However, now you decide that you will never, never, ever, ever tell my sister about my existence. Why? Because … you’re afraid she’ll get mad at you for keeping a secret for so long, and that since she just graduated from RIT, she’ll experience emotional stress.
Lovely. Growing up as an only child, you dangle SIBLINGS in front of my face, and then … YANK! Pull one of them away, beyond my reach. WHAT A FUCKING TEASE. Sure, you’re avoiding a situation where a daughter might be mad at you for a few weeks, and the awkwardness of having to explain why you told the sons but not her earlier. Still, though, that’s nothing compared to the torment of knowing that I have a sister who will never, ever know of my existence. Thanks … treating me like the bastard child that I am.
What else? Well, one thing I feared most in my life was being alone after my adoptive parents pass away. You see, they’re in their mid-70s, and not in great health anymore. I have a very small, loose extended family, with no immediate aunts, uncles or cousins. I’m not married, and it looks unlikely that I ever will get hitched. You’re … what, 55 years old? You told me that I’d never have to worry about being alone again? Now, though, since I’m this big secret, that’s out the window. Another thing dangled in front of my face … the security of knowing that I won’t be floating alone in the world in ten or so years, gone.
Here’s the deal, birth mom. You tell my sister about me. If you don’t … so long Dan, or Christopher Michael as it says on my other birth certificate. Looks like the novelty of finding your long-lost son wore off, huh?
Bitch.