The phone rang

On Sunday, my daughter came home from religious school and told us a story about King Solomon and two women who claimed the same baby. I didn't think much of it at the time, but then the phone rang. After 7 years, I'm still not prepared for these calls. The caller ID didn't help this time because she called from her sister's house. So I answer the phone and she says "hi, Jay, it's Laura" and I have a moment of Laura who? and I realize I'm talking to my daughter's birthmother.

I know, of course, that my daughter's adopted. She knows, too. I don't want my daughter to think there's anything about her that's so shameful it has to be kept secret. She knows lots of adopted kids. We all behave as if it's no big deal. It's another way to make a family. All of that is true, and yet in that moment when I recognize Laura's voice on the phone it feels like a very big deal, indeed.

It's a big deal because I realize, in my deepest soul, that I wish I didn't have to talk to her. I'm worried she won't like me, that eventually when they meet, my daughter - her daughter - our daughter - will look at me differently. I'm worried that my daughter will wake sobbing in the middle of the night asking why she wasn't good enough for her first mother to keep her. I don't like having to confront my privilege; I don't like being reminded that I'm raising this child because I am wealthier and better educated than the woman who gave birth to her. And I hear the pain in Laura's voice, the longing to hear about our child, the grief of separation and loss.

I chose those conversations - or at least my husband and I did. This started as a "semi-open" adoption; we met Laura when she was pregnant and again the day after our daughter was born, but we didn't exchange phone numbers or addresses. For four years, Sam and I dutifully sent in our updates and pictures to the adoption agency, and they sent them on to Laura. Then Sam suggested we include our address and phone number in a letter. We'd been through a rocky time attempting a second adoption, and neither of us wanted to hear from the agency, ever again. Sam has always been more comfortable dealing with Laura than I have, and his suggestion made sense. I had no good reason to disagree. I was ashamed of my reluctance. So he wrote the letter, and a week later the phone rang. In the three years since, I've probably spoken to Laura five or six times, and every time I'm upset for days.

But I keep doing it. Even when the caller ID tells me who it is, I still answer the phone. And I thought I knew why - I thought it was for my daughter, so she would have the opportunity to know the woman who gave her life, to ask the questions she wants to ask when she's ready, to have another adult in her life who loves her. Now I think maybe I do it for another reason, and my daughter told me why after religious school. There are two mothers in that story, one who gave birth to the baby, and one who did not. I don't want to be the mother who thought it was OK to cut the child in half.