I’m trying to imagine the conversation that may have gone on a few days ago, after the postman arrived at the door. Hopefully, they view the mail with the same sense of adventure that I do, because it had to have been quite a shock.

Mother: What’s in the mail today?

Son : Just some utility bills, the usual junk mail, and a note from your son.

Mother: You are my son.

Son: Why didn’t you tell me about my older brother?

Mother: You are my oldest son.

Son: Not according to this certified letter.

Mother: OMG! – I’m so embarrassed! (tears)

Son: What do you want to do? Is it true then?

Maybe the conversation took place that suddenly? I not really sure if mother and son live together, or if she is in assisted living or even living? He may decide not to share this information with her, and that could be the end of my chances to meet my birth mother. I’m positive that it’s her, based on all the documents that I’ve gathered. I need to let my genetic connection through 23andMe know how helpful he was in solving this first mystery.  There are many other mysteries that only my birth mother would ever know. I hope I didn’t upset her family in the process, but at 84 years old time is running out for us – if there is to be an us? I feel very selfish, exposing this 66 year old secret, and placing the burden on her remaining living son to take the next step.

He now knows that he’s not the only Jerry Lee that she gave birth to, and that after losing two younger step-brothers, he is not the only brother yet. I’m sure that he didn’t know about this missing piece of his mother’s life, and that she probably never expected for this day to come. The truth was buried by her guardians, as she was secretly sent away from home to give birth. Who know how much shame she brought upon her family. Most of them are surely dead by now, but there’s a new generation of relatives that may be judgmental about the difficult decisions that she made as a young girl of just over 18. After giving birth, she may have returned to her family and tried to pick up the pieces of her life? She may have had second thoughts, or had never wanted to give up her baby? Then again, the circumstances may have been embarrassing. Was the father, “The Marine,” that she loved or “The Marine” that forced himself upon her?

I can remember as a child fantasizing about the circumstances about my birth. I’m not sure that I really understand how I came to exist. I’m embarrassed to admit, that I was confused about sex and didn’t understand the “birds and bees.” At the same time, I was in a Vacation Bible Program that talked about Jesus and his birth through the “virgin” Mary, that was even more confusing. I had the attitude that there were good children and bad children. The “good” children were selected, whereas the “bad” children were conceived. I was given the impression that I was “special,” and that my parents chose me over hundreds of other options for that very twisted reason. When I finally somewhat understood the adoption process, I then began to imagine myself as the son of royalty, or that someday I would be reclaimed like a fairy tale. If I didn’t get my way, I was tempted to say “you aren’t my real parents.” Fortunately, I never did, nor did I ultimately ever regret being raised the way I was. I owe my life to a birth mother, but I owe my love and success to my adopted parents. They are my real mother and father.

What role could my birth mother now play in my life? She could first identify the father and show me pictures, so I can search for any resemblance that most people on earth take for granted. In sharing photos seen on Facebook of my birth mother in recent years, close friends see similarities. The smile, the chin, and the nose are most noted. This reassures me that I have found the right woman. Even my step-brother of the same given name shares some of these characteristics. I included a photo of me in the documents I mailed to him. He’s about 5 years younger, and was born out of her first marriage, so he’s a Poole rather than a Banister (or Bannister). I felt a bit like a stalker, searching his Facebook photos, but was only allowed limited access. I tried to friend him, as Jerry Lee Bannister, through my alternate Facebook identity that I set up years ago as part of my search for her existence. I have about a 100 Bannister Facebook friends that I feel a guilty sense of deception in our virtual relationship. I thought that one of them would surely know an Edna Faye Bannister, but no one ever responded. He has never responded to my generous offer of “Social Media Friendship.”

Life goes on for me, regardless of the outcome of this adventure. I feel a sense of satisfaction that I have conquered some of my initial reservations about seeking this information. I remain very loyal to my parents. They have been gone for three years, but I know that they would want me to thank her for giving them what they couldn’t have themselves. I also know that this could be a bittersweet compliment, if she had pleaded to keep me as her own. Perhaps, she could have given me a better life, although that would have been difficult to achieve. I remain content with the way that things turned out, and I certainly bear no regrets with the decision to put me up for adoption. I couldn’t have had more wonderful parents, and they gave me more than I ever wanted, with the exception of that toy model Edsel that I never got for Christmas. I bought it myself and it sits on my office shelf next to a similar die-cut model of the 1964 1/2 Mustang Convertible that I used to earn my driver’s licence. I’m glad my dad decided not to follow my advice on the car to buy, otherwise he would have been stuck with a lemon rather than a classic.

In drifting away from the emotional to the humorous, I tend to follow this obvious pattern of avoidance in both conversation in in writing. The sudden shift from birth mother to Edsel happened when I felt some tears forming in my eyes, and I needed to a little humor to dry them up. I have a lot of love in my heart for the people who made my life possible, and I would just like the chance to tell them all, if it’s not too late. I just hope that I’m going about doing it the right way, and in the process that I’m not sacrificing my curiosity for someone else’s discomfort. I’m close to some answers, but I have to understand that I may never get them.