9781594200946l.jpgI have been thinking of sending my birthmother a copy of this book, The Girls Who Went Away: The Hidden History of Women Who Surrendered Children for Adoption in the Decades Before Roe V. Wade. (boy, that is a mouthful) She is one of those “girls,” although she wasn’t really a girl at that time. But I think the book will really illuminate the environment during that period, and show the context of shame that shadowed her and her decisions at that time.

Because she had been interned during World War II, I sent her an excellent anthology that was edited by a friend of mine several years ago. She responded with gratitude and enthusiasm and said that it meant a lot to her.

But her internment is not a secret; she doesn’t announce it to the world, but I’m sure if someone asks her, she will say that yes, this was her experience.

Becoming pregnant and giving me up for adoption is her Number. One. Secret. I feel like she would drop this book like it was on fire if it showed up on her doorstep. But my hope is that it would also give her some solace and education, and a sense of community with these other young women.

What is my motivation for sending this? Part of me wants to give her that sense of community and not-aloneness. But I admit that part of me wants to break down her wall of denial that this happened in the first place.

What am I risking?  Another total break in communication if I freak her out or upset her.  Part of me feels like we don’t have much of a relationship now so I don’t have much to lose. But I still do. She is still the only living person who knows who my birthfather is.  And I still hold out some crumb of hope that she might tell me while she’s alive.

Sigh. I guess I won’t be sending it.  A box of chocolate instead.  Double sigh.