The time when we invited my friend's kids, only three at that time, I think, to dinner. The three corresponded in age to three of mine, and they were friends, too.
My friend's son Joe, I'll call him, was adopted. I had told my children, but Joe's parents had not told him. Which means he did not know. By the time he left our house, he knew. Actually, by mid-dinner he knew. We may all have finished eating. All except me and maybe Joe. I don't remember that part.
Of course, the whole thing was my doing, my fault. I had neglected to warn my children against telling him. I had neglected to tell them he didn't know. I was immediately sorry for what I had told my children and for what I had neglected to tell them.
Joe's response to the information he received in my dining room--information his parents had the right to withhold or reveal as they desired--was bewilderment, disbelief, utter disbelief. I can see him now, looking around at all who were there, looking to me for confirmation or denial. It was a terrible moment.
I don't remember which of my children spoke the life-changing words, but I knew it was without guile, with no harm intended. Innocent it was. But its effect was profound.
I left the table and called his mother, confessed what had happened, and apologized abjectly. I was truly and deeply sorry. I think I was also worried about our friendship.
Of course, I knew that the apology was inadequate, but there was nothing else I could do. She did not yell at me or call me stupid or curse my children, any of which she might have done. She was kind, understanding, forgiving. At least, over the phone. I have wondered if that is how she really felt.
I don't know how Joe's parents had planned to spend their evening. Plans changed, no doubt. They had until I brought their kids home to figure out what they would say to Joe. I had until I was able to forgive myself to get over it.
I think of it now because I just heard something stunning on the radio as I drove home from Nampa. It came from a woman who was adopted as a child. She said that she has never known who she is. That is a stunning, sad admission. One I have never been forced to make, have never even needed to think about.
No need to talk about the loving people who adopted and raised her. That was not the issue she spoke of.
She simply does not know who she really is. She knows that her mother was 17 and that her father was "passing through." And that is all she knows.
Joe's parents, the ones who adopted him, knew much more than that about his "real" parents, and I suppose they told him all they knew. Showed him documents, names, places.
We have read and seen depicted that desire adopted people have to know, to find their real roots, their real parents. And so I wonder if Joe wanted to find his people. I do not know if Joe ever did that, if his parents encouraged it. I have never asked. I did not want to be trusted with any more information on the matter.
