„Mother?" I entered the room. My mother had been living in this old people's home ever since I had moved out of the house. Her dementia had reached the point where she was unable to care for herself long ago.
I slowly moved though the tiny room. The walls were painted in a warm tone of yellow but they couldn't hide the fact that death was waiting around the corner. My mother was sitting in her old rocking chair, the only object she had been allowed to take from her old house. She looked so vulnerable, skinny, her eyes closed, her skin pale.
„Mother?" I asked again. „It's me, Sally." She opened her eyes. They were were of a watery blue, so different from my own brown eyes.
„Oh dear, I must have dozed off." she apologized. „But what are you doing here, Mary? I thought you were on vacation in France."
„No, mother, I am here." I whispered and bit my lip. „I found my birth certificate today. And... It says that my birthplace is London. But I was born in Long Eaton, right?"
„I don't know where you were born. You need to ask you mother about that, dear."
„But you are my mother!" I said.
„What are you talking about? I'm not even married!" she responded, sounding slightly indignant.
One of the things you learn when you are around a person with dementia is that you don't question what they say. It only causes more confusion for them. Maybe that was the reason why I simply sat down on the floor and ordered my thoughts. I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel confused. I felt empty. My mother hadn't said that I was adopted but even if she had, it wouldn't mean much. But there was the thing with the birth certificate. And the fact that I looked nothing like my mother or anyone else in the family.
„Mummy? Why do I have dark skin and curly hair?" I asked. My mother smiled.
„That is because of your father. He had skin as dark as chocolate and his hair was even curlier that yours!" I looked at her, surprised.
„Really?"
„Of course!"
„Where is daddy now? I want to meet him!" I continued to ask. My mother's expression changed, grew serious. There was sadness in her voice as she said:
„Darling, you daddy is gone." I looked at my mother with big eyes as she continued to tell me that my father became a star. „He watches over you as you sleep." she said.
That was answer satisfied me and I continued to play with my teddy bear.
As I grew older I had started to wonder what had happened to my father. Had he died? Or left my mother, like Sharon's father did? If so, did he think about me? Did he know that I existed? Had he married again? Did I have step-sisters or brothers? I never asked my mother any of those questions. Maybe I was scared to find out the truth. Maybe I didn't want to make her sad. Maybe I just forgot to ask her.
I stood up again. One last attempt, I told myself. „Am I adopted?" I asked her.
(At the back of my brain I registered that, instead of saying „Mother, am I adopted?" I had left away the „mother". Amazing how quickly we adapt to new ideas.)