Margie and I are sitting across the dining room table from my parents. Conversation flows smoothly enough as we pass around platters of food that I’m hopeful it’s a good omen and my news about adopting won’t freak them out too badly.
Handing the rotisserie chicken to Margie, I tell her, “Make sure you take a lot. You need the protein.”
Once our plates are full, the atmosphere fills with the sound of silverware clattering against plates. I’ve completely lost my appetite, but I cut stuff up and push it around my plate, so I at least look like I’m eating.
I try to screw up my courage by reminding myself that I’ve stood up to my mom in the past. Even though it didn’t always go well, I always maintained my stance. The only time she won was when she forced me to register for white china for my wedding instead of the floral pattern I was drawn to. Her reasoning was that white could be used all year and floral would be limiting. It wasn’t the worst decision, but still, I’ve always regretted not going with my heart.
My mom finally breaks the silence and asks Margie, “Haveyou thought more about what you’re going to do with your pregnancy?”
“I sure have.” Margie sounds extremely happy.
My mom arches her left eyebrow until it forms something of a question mark. “Are you willing to share the news?”
Margie glances at me for permission, so I nod. I suppose this is as good a time as any to start the conversation. “I’m going to put her up for adoption,” Margie announces.
“Really?” My mom’s tone makes it hard to pinpoint if she thinks this is a good idea or not.
Joining the conversation, I explain, “Margie wants an open adoption so that she will be able to have contact with her child as it grows up.”
“Oh.” Again, my mother doesn’t offer enough of an inflection to convey her true feelings. But if I had to guess, I don’t think she likes the idea.
My dad, however, asks, “Won’t that be hard on you?”
“No harder than not knowing how my baby was doing,” she tells him.
“What if the adoptive parents don’t want an open adoption?” my mom wants to know.
“They’ll have to agree to that up front,” Margie says. “If they don’t, then they aren’t the parents I’ll choose.”
I have a lump of chicken lodged in my throat that might just end me if I don’t get it down. Picking up my water glass, I take a big gulp until the danger has passed. Then I take a deep breath before blurting out, “Margie has actually already chosen who will get to adopt her baby.”
My mom’s fork falls and crashes loudly onto her plate. “How is it possible to have found someone so soon?”
“A lot of people want to adopt,” I tell my mom.
“The Wilsons adopted all of their children,” my dad interjects, referencing his old partner at his law firm.
“It took them ages.” My mom looks at Margie and shares, “They were on a waiting list for three years before they got their first.”
“Like I said, Mom, a lot of people want to adopt.” I take another sip of water and try to gauge if this really is the best moment to share my news.
Before I can decide, my dad says, “It was tough on them with Charlie though. They didn’t know he was a fetal alcohol baby until all the developmental trouble started.” He tops that off with, “I’d be afraid to adopt. You never know whose baby you’d get and what kind of family health history they might have.”
“That’s why I’ve decided to pick someone that I know. This way, they’ll know me and know what they’re getting,” Margie tells him.
“You’ve found someone you know who will agree to this arrangement?” My mother sounds both horrified and curious at the same time. This might not be a surprise, but my mom slows down and gawps at every car accident she passes. That’s kind of how it feels right now.
“I have found someone,” Margie tells them. Then she looks at me to see if I want to take over.
I don’t really have much choice at this point, so I announce, “I’mgoing to adopt Margie’s baby.”
I might as well have just confessed to being a serial killer, given the looks on both of my parents’ faces. My dad’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly until it simply closes. My mom’s eyebrows knit together so tightly she could hold a penny in the slit that forms between them.
I’m about to explain everything in more detail, but my mom stands up, bursts into tears and then runs from the room. While I didn’t necessarily expect her to take the news well, I didn’t think she would make such a scene.
My dad pushes away from the table. “I should go check on your mother.”
But before he can, my mom walks back into the room. Shestands behind her chair like a queen—shoulders back, head high, and an indefinable expression on her face.
