I look like my father. I have his eyes, his hands, his calves, and his forehead. My arms look like my aunt’s. I’m as hairy as my grandpa. My teeth are as crooked as my mum’s — although eight years of braces fixed that. My nose looks just like my grandma’s. I’m my father’s daughter cause I look and behave like him, because we use to like the same things.
When my gorgeous 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 there’s no way on Earth my beautiful niece looks 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, just 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 everything, threw away a bunch of things, 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.
After having a panic attack and calling the one person in this world who would never lie to me — my aunt, my father’s youngest and most amazing sibling — the truth came out.
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. Her decision has made everything worse. What kind of person lies to a kid about adoption? My father, my adoptive dad I should say, has been dead for 18 years; it was her responsibility to tell me I wasn’t their biological daughter.
For years and years I thought that if I ever had kids, they would look like my father’s family. After all, I grew up thinking, believing, that I looked like them. But today I honestly don’t know what’s in my genetic pool. Blue or green eyes are totally possible, my little person could be taller than me, he could be blond, redheaded or have black hair, like his dad. The truth is we simply don’t know what our recessive genes have in stock for us.
My husband and I laugh about it a lot. We try to guess what he’ll look like and have decided that he’s either going to be 100% him or 100% me, but deep down we know he could look nothing like us. Two things are for sure his blood type will be A or B+ and we’ll love him to bits because he’s our son.
When he’s all grown up and starts asking questions, I’ll tell him I’m adopted.
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.