Finding Laila: Some Changes are Necessary (16 page)

Butterflies swarm in the pit of my
stomach the closer we get to the house. The street feels foreign, even though
I’ve practically lived here my entire life. Anger surges through me again, but
I take a deep, steadying breath and release it in an attempt to remain calm.

I
stare out the side window at the homes I’ve played at, the places where I’ve
gotten bruised and bloodied playing with the boys, and three houses down, my
own home comes into view. As if he can sense my hesitance, Haden reaches over
and takes my hand in his so he can press it to his lips.

“You’re
going to be okay,” he says with a sad smile. “Just try to hear them out.”

He
pulls into the driveway and leaves the car running while I climb out. The front
door opens and my parents stand
side by side
looking
at me; Mom is in tears. I lean down to thank him for helping me, but he shakes
his head and smiles.

“Quarry.
Later? I’ll get one of the guys to come with me to get your car from the
gallery, okay?”

I
nod and step away from the car and watch as he drives away with a simple wave
to my parents. They return the small gesture with one of their own but linger
at the top of the stairs with anxiety written all over their faces while I
remain in the driveway. My shoulders slump in defeat, and I take a step toward
the walkway and am met by my mom running toward me.

She
gathers me into her arms, her tears staining my shirt. It’s hard for me to wrap
my arms around her, but I make myself do it—and as soon as I do, my eyes
sting with tears.

“I’m
so sorry,” she cries. “I knew there was never an easy way to do it, but God
help me, I didn’t want it to be this way.”

She
releases me from her hug but keeps hold of my hands like she thinks I’m going
to bolt again. Maybe I will.
I’m
staring at the ground and she reaches for my chin so that I’m looking at her,
but I turn away.

“Can
we go inside?” I finally ask when I have my voice back. “I’d rather not have an
audience.”

Dad
remains standing near the front door, and he’s not nearly as apologetic in his
appearance as Mom is.

“Laila,”
his voice cracks slightly, “if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will
ground you for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”

I
look at him in disbelief because he’s never really been this stern with me. I
give him a heartbroken smile before I speak. “I’m eighteen.”

“I
don’t care how old you are. You are our daughter, and if you have a problem you
stick around and deal with it. Go upstairs and cry, scream, play loud
music—but we do not walk out on each other, and you don’t take off
without letting us know where you’re going. Are we clear?”

“Yes,
sir,” I respond, stepping into the house.

From
the entrance, I can see tissues are strewn across the living room floor and the
kitchen counter—evidence of their worry. Mom takes my hand and leads me
to the couch to have a seat, and my dad moves to the other side.

“Can
we try this again?” she asks.

“It’s
already out there, Mom. I don’t think there’s another way to say that I’m not
your daughter.”

“We
never said that you’re not our daughter—and you are not allowed to say
that again,” Dad sighs.

My
mom speaks first. “Honey, I was in the room when you were born, Andie, your
birth mom, had asked me to be there. When she interviewed us, she was six
months along—and there was something about her that was endearing and
kind. She was strong, but I knew that she was sad and scared about what she was
doing. She was my age, but not ready to be a mom, and there I was with your
dad, hoping to start a family.”

“Andie,”
Dad speaks up, “originally wanted a closed adoption, but changed her mind and
that’s when she met us. She and your mom became close and she asked if we would
send pictures and keep her updated on your life and we agreed.”

“I
think it had to be the hardest thing she’d ever done. The moment you were born,
she looked at you and smiled before turning away. The nurse placed you in my
arms and that moment, I became a mom.” Mom wipes her eyes and pulls out a photo
album that I’ve never seen before.

“What
happened to her?” I ask weakly.

“She
moved away when you were two. I think the possibility of seeing us with you was
too much. But she had our address and wrote, so we sent her pictures.”

“What’s
this?” I ask of the small photo album.

“These
are some photos of Andie,” she says, sitting back on the couch and pulling me
along with her. “She was very pretty—you look a lot like her.”

She
wipes away a stream of tears and I see that this is very hard for her—for
both of them—but especially for Mom. She opens the book and there’s a
picture of a young girl who has my eyes and the same color hair. Her arms wrap
around her small belly and she looks to be laughing.

“This
was taken about a month after we met her,” Dad says. “Your mom said something
to her about looking like her own prom date where her hands were and she
started laughing. I didn’t think it was funny, but for whatever reason, she
did.”

“Andie
had a great sense of humor,” Mom comments with an easy smile while we look at
the other pictures. There are only about ten there, and the last one is Andie
with a tiny baby—me—in her arms. She’s looking down at me and I can
see the sadness in her eyes and my heart hurts for her.

“She
told us that she didn’t have the support of her family to care for you, and she
wanted that for you. She wanted you to have two parents who loved each other,
who would raise you to be a strong, independent woman, and she wanted you to
know that she would always love you.”

“Mom,”
I cry, burying my head in her neck.

“There’s
more,” my
dad
says when he stands up and walks to a
box I never realized contained anything. “The last time we heard from her, she
gave us something for you.”

He
has two pieces of paper in his hands and looks at my mom, who gives him silent
permission to continue.

“This
was the letter that she sent to us,” he hands me the first one, “and this is a
letter she wrote to you.”

The
one to me is sealed; clearly it’s never been read.

“This
is too much,” I sigh, holding them both. “Can I be alone for a bit? I promise,
I won’t leave. But I can barely breathe right now and I feel like I’m about to
lose it.”

Mom
pulls me tight into her arms and I feel her nod. I stand up and she follows,
and for the first time, I see the pain in my dad’s eyes. He steps aside so I
can pass, but stops me and pulls me into his arms.

“You’ve
always been my girl,” he croaks. “Always.”

“I
know, Dad.”

He
releases me from his grasp and I walk out of the living room to head upstairs,
but stop at the first one. When I look back, Dad is sitting next to Mom,
holding her while her shoulders shake and her hand covers her mouth. My heart
breaks again, but I make my journey to my room to wrap my mind around
everything I’ve learned since this morning.

* * *

I
have no idea what an
open adoption
is, so I search online to find answers and I’m stunned by the amount of
information. Andie selected my parents, and I don’t think she could have picked
anyone better.

I
glance at the letters resting on my bed, but I’m not prepared to see the
contents. The words that they contain could give me answers I never knew I
needed or they could devastate me. Instead, I turn back to the screen and read
about the adoption process.

Exchange of information

Visits

Letters and phone calls

There
are so many options. She could have been involved in my life, but she chose to
leave.

Why?

I
look at the letters again and feel the pull to read them and discover their secrets.
My curiosity is getting the best of me, so I walk over to the bed and lean
against the pillows. I pick up one of the letters and tap it in my hand as I
weigh my options. I don’t want to be shattered by the words because I’ve dealt
with enough for one day.

Maybe I should hold off.

I
scoff aloud because that’s not going to happen. Instead, I unfold the first
piece of paper to read last letter she wrote to my parents.

Dear Julie and Garret,

Thank you for the birthday
package you sent last month. Laila is getting so big and beautiful. You look
like the family I always wanted for her.

I’ve settled here in San
Diego and it’s great. I miss my family, but it was the right thing. It was too
hard to be near Laila and not see or hold her. I will always have a place for
her in my heart, and for you both as well.

Giving her up was the
hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but you both know that I wasn’t ready to be
a mom yet. I couldn’t raise her, but I’m so thankful that I found two wonderful
people who would take care of her and love her as their own. I prayed so many
times for the strength to move on, but even with the distance between us, I
still can’t.

Even as I write this, I
can’t stop crying because of the finality of it all. This will be the last
letter you receive from me. I need to let go and attempt to move on, and as
long as you keep sending me pictures of that sweet angel, I’ll never be able to
do it. So please, do not send me any more pictures or updates. If you do, I
will return them unopened.

Knowing you has been a
blessing and I hope that you continue to take care of Laila and raise her to be
as wonderful as you. She is a gift, incredibly special and beautiful, and all I
ask is that you do everything in your power to make sure that she’s strong, smart
and kind.

Perhaps someday, if and
when you tell her about me, could you please tell her that I will always love
her? I’ve included a letter for her as well, should you feel that it is
appropriate to give it to her. Thank you both for proving me right and being
the best choice for our girl.

Always,

Andie

I
can read the pain in her words and I know that it was hard for her to end
communication, how could it not be? As much as it pains me to know that my
parents kept something so big from me, knowing that this woman exists brings me
some sort of happiness and I want to know more. Without another second to
spare, I carefully open the letter addressed to me and immediately tears fill
my eyes. A picture of Andie, holding me when I was around one falls out.

My dearest Laila,

I am at a loss for how to
start this. If you’re reading it, then you know that you are adopted and I’m
sure you have a mix of emotions going on inside of you. I can’t help but wonder
how old you are when you see this? Are you happy? Do you hate me? I really hope
you don’t.

At the time I am writing
this letter, you have turned three and I just saw pictures of you with your
brown messy hair, big smile and cake all over your outfit. Every time I see
your face, my heart melts again and I question the choices I’ve made in my
life. The one thing I’ve never questioned was bringing you into this world.
This last year, not seeing you, has been pure torture, but I know I did the
right thing in moving away.

Your parents are the most
wonderful people I have ever met. They are the parents that I wish I could have
had for my own. We don’t get to choose our family, but I did get to choose
yours and I know, even now at whatever age you are, I chose right. I’ve never
seen two people more in love and more ready for a family. I hope you have a
family. I was an only child and I was very lonely. I hope that your mom and dad
have given you brothers and sisters, because I would have loved to have that in
my own life.

I want to tell you a little
bit about me, in case you ever wonder. I was born in San Diego,
California—my dad was a marine, so we moved a lot. When he retired, he
moved us to Texas to be near his mom, but after she died, we stayed because he
was tired of moving. I went to a small private school in San Antonio and played
just about every sport I could, but swimming was always my favorite.

When I found out I was
pregnant with you, I was in the last semester of my senior year of college, so
I had to take the semester off. My parents were not happy, which is why they
cut me off. Things between us have never been quite the same, but deep down, I
know they love me. (Even if they have a hard time showing it.)

I moved back to San Diego
last year to live with my grandmother—my mother’s mom—so I could
finish up my business degree. I’ve been very lucky to have her, because she
reminds me all the time that I can do anything I want. I know that you two
would love each other.

This letter is all over the
place and I’m sorry for that. I wish I was eloquent with words, but when you
are trying to cram a lifetime in a few short sentences, it gets hard. I just
wanted to be able to give you an idea of the person I am and hope to God that
you don’t hate me for giving you up. It was the most difficult choice, but the
best for both of us.