The Heartbreaking Love of a Parent
I met my birth father when I was just days old. I don't remember it, and didn't even know it happened until he wrote to me about it years later. It took him 25 years to get one full year of sobriety under his belt since my birth: That's when he decided he was finally ready to seek out the daughter never really knew.
My birth father wrote to the adoption agency detailing his courtship with my birth mother. They fell in love. They were engaged. And then alcohol swept through his bloodstream, conniving its host into believing it was a necessary element to life. Cruel fate decided it to be quite the opposite.
This part of what he wrote in that first letter slayed me:
The first time I went to treatment was in 1968—during the period when my daughter was born. I was able to visit the hospital—sober—see my daughter and her mother twice and held my daughter in my arms. Those are vivid memories I shall never forget—the three of us in a special moment in time.
That stopped me in my tracks. I let it soak in.
He held me.
He held his tiny baby and then took a big leap of faith to pass me on to others who promised to care for me in a way that he could not.
I can’t imagine how hard it would be to hold your baby conceived in love and then take the biggest leap of faith possible to entrust this little life to someone who hopefully can care better for it than you can. That is love. Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Divine. Love.