I look up, only to find that I’m alone in the office. I look over my shoulder, through the windows, and see Lynx and Landon out there bitching at some newbie lightweight fighter. The only thing in the office with me is the envelope that seems to be screaming at me to rip it open and go through every fucking piece of information I can find.
She knows what he looks like.
I shake away the burning in my eyes and go back to the letter, soaking in every single painful word.
I met these parents during the adoption process. After interviewing dozens of couples, some through the agency I used, some through face-to-face visits, I chose Patricia and Donald Matsen because they seemed the most like everything you and I used to dream of having for parents. Do you remember that? When we’d sit at the park, swinging on swings too small for us and we’d envision what our lives would be like if only we had parents who cared—who truly loved us? These people are those parents, Grayson. I knew it in my soul the moment I met them. Patricia was in the delivery room with me. She held my hand as I welcomed our—and their—child into the world.
I think of our son every day. There is not a moment that goes by when I don’t imagine what life would be like had I kept him. What he would be like if I were the one raising him. I also know that I made the right decision, the best decision I could at the time. I’m so sorry if me admitting this hurts you, but our son has a great life.
Every year, on his birthday, April 16th, I receive a letter in the mail via my adoption agency. In it, Patricia lovingly describes in detail, sometimes excruciatingly painful detail, all of the things our child has accomplished over the year. She includes photos. She goes above and beyond what I requested during our adoption process because she is so overwhelmingly in love with the boy I birthed for her.
Read the letters and look at the photos. You will see that everything I’m telling you is true. I cannot regret the decision I made when I created my adoption plan. His life is spectacular, better than anything you or I imagined on those rusty swings.
My only regret is that you didn’t have a say.
Again, I’m sorry, Grayson.
Kennedy
With the back of my hand, I wipe away tears that are streaming down my cheeks. Photos. Letters. She makes it sound like his life is perfect.
I reach for the envelope and shake everything out, letting the letters and photos that she’s copied and scanned fall all over the table and the floor.
I search through everything she sent.
My mind is blank as I hold every single photo between my fingers, searching for recognizable features in my boy’s face, only to discover he’s almost a spitting image of Kennedy, except for my blue eyes.
I don’t know how long I sit in the office that reeks of stale sweat, but no one bothers me.
It must be hours.
I stare into his little face, his miniature fingers wrapped around a woman’s hand as she smiles down at him. His face is scrunched up and bright red, an odd gel over his closed eyes. It has to be moments after he was born and this woman, this stranger, is already in love with him as tears stain her cheeks.
My own vision is blurry as I flip through photo after photo. I can barely read the words on the page she wrote with her hands, somehow making the accomplishments of my son learning how to ride a bike, or sing his ABCs, or piss in the toilet seem larger and more personal than if they were printed with ink.
I flip through more letters, soaking all the information into my heart, which is beating too fast and growing so large it puts pressure on my ribcage. I freeze when I see the first letter she ever penned.
I already know his name, seeing it scrawled in feminine cursive in the stacks of letters, but this one—this first letter sent shortly after the strangers took my kid home from the hospital—slices pain and admiration straight to my core.
Dear Kennedy,
We are only supposed to send letters once a year, but I hope the adoption agency makes an exception for us this one time.
I also hope and pray this letter doesn’t cause you undue stress as you recover and heal from the gift you have given Don and me.
We have only had our boy for a few short days, but so far, I must admit he is absolutely perfect and we are absolutely in love. I have thanked you numerous times for the decision you have made. I cannot fathom how difficult this must be for you.
But I had to let you know…I wanted to let you know that we have chosen our name for the child you so gracefully placed in my hands only days ago.
We have named him Thaddeus “Thad” Boone Matsen. It’s a mouthful, I know.
Searching name books and websites has been a process, but we chose these names for two reasons.
Thaddeus…because it means “one who has courage.” We want him to have a piece of his birth mother with him at all times, a piece of the courage you showed when you chose this life for him.
And Boone…because it means “miracle.” That is what he is to us, and we will always be grateful to you for allowing us to experience this miracle in our life.
Thank you, Kennedy, from the bottom of our overwhelmed and overly thankful hearts. We would not have the family I’ve always dreamed of my entire life if it weren’t for you.
Take care.
Heal well.
And may God bless you always.
Patricia Matsen
“Shit.” I place the paper almost reverently among the stacks of pages I’ve already scoured. Rubbing my hands down my face, I can’t stop the shakes that overwhelm my shoulders and my body.
These people.
They’re so fucking good. I never had a piece of that in my life. Kennedy never had a piece of that in her life.
It’s scary as fuck, the amount of love I can feel pouring off the pages this woman writes.
Glancing up, I look back into the gym and see that all the fighters have gone. The lights are dimmed and I know I’ve been in here almost all day long.
Landon and Lynx spar inside the ring, but they’re mostly fucking around. I can tell by their smiles and laughs as they dodge each other’s kicks and pulled punches.
They’ve been sticking around for me.
I look back down at the letters and gather them into a stack so I can slide them back into the envelope. Taking care so I don’t bend a single corner, I do the same thing with the photos that I’ve looked through, deciding I’ll look through the rest when I’m back in my condo.
One flickers to the floor, floating like a leaf falling off a tree, and I bend down to pick it up.
The date is stamped September 2014. Thad is standing under a tree in his front yard, large crooked smile stretching his lips, and he’s missing his two front teeth. I carefully run my finger around the outline of his body, feeling my own lips spread into a smile as I take him in. In his two hands, he’s holding a hand printed sign that has a large K on it and the words “First Day of School” printed underneath.
My boy is in school.
He looks happy while he stands on a bright green lawn under the shade of a giant oak.
From the letters and the photos, he seems happy. They seem like wonderful people.
But knowing this doesn’t change a damn thing.
He’s still mine.
And I want him.
Sixteen
Kennedy
The week trudges by, every day feeling as if it’s a repeat of the one before. My body feels worn and strained, even though I haven’t done much besides pretend to clean, pretend to look for jobs, and veg out watching a Stars Wars marathon of all six movies in succession. It took me the entire day yesterday, pausing the movies only for short bathroom breaks and the few times I stopped to eat when I actually thought about food.
In addition to the non-profit she still helps run and her speaking engagements, Sarah’s been busy with her full-time job as an event planner, working like crazy for some bridezilla whose nuptials are this coming Saturday. She’s called and checked in, but she’s so frazzled that we haven’t spoken much.
Lounging in the same yoga pants I have had on for the last two days, only taking them off to shower and put on fresh underwear, I’m lying on the couch, shoveling handfuls of popcorn into my mouth and getting caught up on Saturday night’s episode of Outlander. The love of these two characters on the show is epic, and even though seeing them happy makes me want to throw my popcorn at the screen, the fact that with every trial they face they come out stronger fills me with a hope I don’t understand.
That’s the kind of love I want someday. The kind of love that doesn’t stop beating solely because a bomb is dropped or something doesn’t go your way.
I want a love like Claire and Jamie. A love that stands the passage of time—literally.
And it’s depressing as hell that I’m alone, jobless, and heartbroken over a man who I’ve now had twice but can’t seem to keep.
A soft knock comes from the door to my apartment and I press pause on the remote.
Rising to my feet, I brush popcorn crumbs off my lap before quickly fixing the messy bun piled on top of my head. I have no makeup on, haven’t worn it since I was fired on Monday. Besides the pizza and Chinese food deliverymen, no one has seen me, so caring about how I look is the last concern I have.
My lips pull into a frown. I haven’t ordered food—at least not that I remembered, but Sarah has had food delivered for me, calling it in from Chicago just to ensure I’m eating properly. I expect to see a short Asian man, black hair slicked back, or the view of a pizza box when I open the door.