When my mother looked up at me, I knew that she was having one of her „clear" moments. Her eyes were bright and her voice was strong when she said „Yes." She paused. I didn't dare to breathe. „I am your grandmother." After I had gotten over the uninternional Star Wars reference and the initial shock, it took my brain a moment to process that piece of information. If she was my grandmother, she was the mother of either my mother or my father. Okay, I thought, so far so good.
„What about my parents?" I proceeded to ask, frearing the worst. The answer hit me hard, even though I had prepared myself for the possibility of it.
„They are dead". My grandmother's voice was nothing but a whisper. „They were so happy when they found out that Tanya was pregnant. But when you were born early, in London instead of Long Eaton and there were complications. Your mother gave her life for you but your dad, David, he couldn't understand. He wanted to be with your mother. He took his life."
I was speechless. All my life... had been a lie? I sat down and burried my head in my hands. I felt numb, helpless. „Why didn't you tell me earlier?" I screamed. The person who I had called mother for so many years looked shocked.
„Dear, don't shout. It is not good for your baby!" As quickly as it had come, the anger faded and all that was left was uncertainty. How could I be angry with a 78 year old woman with dementia? She had only wanted the best for me, I was sure of that. But still, how could she lie to me? I felt tears forming but I held them back with every single fibre of my body. I wouldn't cry. Why should I? My parents were dead, so what? I had never met them. My life had been a lie but was that a reason to be mad? Up to my 8th birthday, I had believed in Santa but finding out that he didn't exist, didn't change the fact that I got presents for Christmas. My grandmother was still my mother, in a way.
I stood up, I needed to go outside, get some fresh air and think about it all. I kissed my mother, my grandmother, on the cheek and left the room, taking my frustration, my helplessness, my uncertainty with me.
The old people's home had a big garden. In summer one could see many seniors walking around with their trolleys, but now in October, most prefer to stay inside. I sat down on a wooden bench, shivering in the cold. I was only wearing a light jacket and my ears were freezing off. Still, I decided to stay on the bench. Thoughts were swirling in by brain and I desperately tried to order them. No success. Your mother gave her life for you, those words echoed in my mind. My mother ided giving birth to me. Great, now I could add guilt to all the emotions I was already experiencing.
Additionally there were all those questions... What had my parents been like? What did they look like? Would they have raised me differently? Would I bee a different person? Should I have ignored that „mistake" on the birthcertificate? Would I be happier not knowing? If I could decide again, whould I chose to know the truth?
I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind and stood up. It was time to look at some old photo albums.
When my mother moved into the old people's home I had sold most of her furniture and belongings. The rest was now rotting on my attic, along with the old love letters from James. That is another story though.
After at least half an hour of searching, I found an album between an old broken TV and a box of Christmas decorations. I pulled it out and immediately started to cough as the dust found its way into my lungs; the red cover was full of dust. 1950-1975 it said. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and opened it.
There she was, my grandmother, the man next to her probably my grandfather and the girl between unmistakably my mother. The same, smile, the same nose, the similarity was striking. I turned the page. My mother being held by my grandmother, taking her first steps, on her first day of school, her tenth birthday, Christmas, ice-skating, swimming, laughing into the camera, graduating school, on the funeral of my grandfather, then smiling again, getting married to a man I assumed to be my father, then a few pictures of her, pregnant with me. The last picture was one of my father, my mother smiling in the camera and fetus-me being there too. I turned the pages and was disappointed to discover that it was blank. As was the page after it and the page after it, all the way to the end of the album. I stood up and stretched my legs. A glance outside told me that it was at least 8 o'clock. Sighing I took the album and walked downstairs, into the living room. It would be an understatement to say that I was surprised when I found someone already sitting on the sofa.