I look like my father. I have his eyes, his hands and his ample forehead. My arms look like my aunt’s. My teeth are as crooked as my mum’s . My nose looks just like my grandma’s. I’m my father’s daughter because I look and behave like him, because we use to like the same things.
When my niece was born, I could tell we were two peas in a pod. Same chubby cheeks, same brow shape, same mouth. No one said anything, though. I found it weird, but then she is her father’s clone.
But in February this year, I found out that all the above is a lie. I’m not a carbon copy of my beloved father and my beautiful niece can’t look like me because we don’t share the same genes.
It only took me 36 years, losing a child, and lots of health problems to discover the truth. And it all came down to my blood type, which I always thought was O positive, just like my father’s, like my mother’s.
It was a hot and humid day, and I was restless. I didn’t want to keep on writing and decided that it was time to tackle the pile of papers and medical bills that had stared at me for the past few weeks. I sorted out all the papers and then checked carefully the information that each one of the documents I had chosen to keep contained. I was Sherlock trying to find clues. I wanted to know why my unborn baby girl didn’t make it.
But I came across something else, my blood type: AB+.
I thought it was a mistake, but three different documents from two doctors and a hospital couldn’t be wrong. I was AB+ and not my parent’s daughter.
I’m adopted. I’m Mrs M’s consolation prize for not being able of having kids of her own. And she decided not to tell me anything because she was afraid I would leave her. What kind of person lies to a child about adoption? My father, my adoptive dad I should say, has been dead for 18 years.
For years I thought that if I ever had kids, they would look like my father. After all, I grew up thinking, believing, that I looked like him. But today I don’t know what’s in my genetic pool.
Two things are for sure his blood type will be A or B+ and I’ll love him to bits because he’s my son.
I haven’t found my biological parents yet — and I may never find them as Mrs M refuses to speak about them — but in April I’ll finally meet the one person in this world who will be related to me. I just hope that’s not too much pressure on him.