Five Years Later : My Adoption Story

Picture this: a pan across a well-lit backyard on a late summer evening. The view gazes over a dog playing in the grass and hovers over his point of view while he pads into the house from the patio and up the stairs towards the sounds of mumbles coming from a bedroom. With his snout he pushes open the door to the master bedroom where you see a man sitting on the bed while his wife paces the floor, making a ‘U’ shape on all sides surrounding the dark wooden bedframe. Suddenly the POV changes from the dog’s height to that of the woman’s where she is obviously anxious about something as she cradles a phone in her hand.

“Just do it!” coaxes the husband in an encouraging tone.

___

Stop. This is the movie script version I have come up with that describes one of the most prolific moments of my life. I am sure if Curtis had his say I would use descriptors like “handsome man,” or “rippling muscles,” but that’s for another script, another time. To fast forward before I hit rewind, this was the night I spoke to my birth dad for the first time. This is not something I had ever imagined would happen nor wished to fruition throughout my childhood and even young adult life. The story truly begins with the birth of our daughter, January.

After January was born, Curtis, that handsome man from the above script, and I were living in a 1,000 sq. ft. home with our son, Jack and newborn, January. Ok, rewind again. For the record, I had always known that I was adopted; it was something that my parents let me know from day one. Or 1,001…you get it. I have always known. And I never felt that it played a role in my upbringing because, honestly, I always forgot about it. I was adopted when I was four days old from a local hospital where my adoptive dad worked for 35 years. He and my mom had been trying to adopt a child after multiple, painful miscarriages and even the death of a son who lived to be just over a week old. They had another son after that, my brother, and until they felt God’s will to adopt. They describe that, after yet another adoption fell through, they saw their path was to raise my brother as an only child, and to turn the empty nursery waiting into an office.

Funny, I have always been a persistent person and I think that anyone who knows me well would say the same. Admittedly, it’s not always one of my personality pros, and can be to the woes of others because I like to get what I want. Well, I suppose that from day one that persistence to find parents, won. And it landed with my dad who had literally days prior packed up his nursery. He was working at the hospital when he stepped into an elevator with a coworker. She mentioned there was a baby girl in need of a home. The hint, hint, wink, wink, nudge, nudged my dad to call my mom. My mom remembers exactly what corner of the oak etagere she was oiling when she took his phone call. There was no second thought, no “let’s talk about this over dinner tonight,” or “what about God’s will?” It was an instantaneous ‘Yes!’ and the rest is history…that I’m still going to explain to you.

All right, imagine this is one of those VCRs that you must rewind, and fast forward, and the tape get stuck from time to time. The pace of this story is going to be a bit like that. So, as I was saying, after the birth of January I began to think about my own origins. The curiosity that I had never felt before was suddenly, for lack of better word, there. I expressed these feelings to Curtis (the one with rippling muscles) and he admitted that he had been doing some recon of his own. He had already been thinking about this and had been searching. Something I left out, sorry that VCR tape got stuck – rewind. Because my dad worked at the hospital, he knew my biological mother’s name. Of course, when I asked him about this at the beginning of my search, he didn’t remember it. However, along with my persistent personality, I also have a good memory and when my parents told me my birth mom’s name when I was little, I never forgot it. The problem with her name, both first and last, is that they are the kind that have multiple spellings and are not uncommon. For privacy, let’s call her Sarah Paulson.

Sarah was a shy 16-year-old with blonde, curly hair. She was a track star and straight A student, and she was so petite that she was able to hide her pregnancy from her entire world. Swap the blonde hair for brunette and that description matches up with yours truly. We had nothing to go on. With no certainty on spelling, or current whereabouts, or even her current last name, our searching came to a halt. That’s when I remembered that the lawyer who worked on my case had mentioned something to me at our wedding.

 Yes, she was a guest of our wedding as she had worked closely with my father for so many years. During dinner she approached Curtis and me, gave her congratulations, and quite honestly said that she was not sure when she would see me again and wanted to inform me that she still had my file if I was ever interested. At that time, I shrugged it off, but here we were 2.5 years later emailing her.

Curtis, January, and I met up with her at a local spot. There on the table between us lay my adoption file. What I learned was that both parents, if both are accounted for, have a separate attorney when giving up the rights to their child. The lawyer that I was meeting with was the attorney of my birth dad, Tony. (His name has also been changed for this rendition.) She and Sarah’s lawyer shared notes so she had information about my mom, including the way Sarah carried herself at an in-home visit after I was already out of her custody.  The lawyer told me about the way she first met up with Tony outside his work to inform him of my birth. Tony; a handsome (yes, she actually had written that down in her notes), 19-year-old boy, who drove a black Camaro, was unaware of my existence, and needed time to think about whether or not he was ready to sign over this baby he was seeing in a polaroid. She told me that both teenagers were from a nearby small town and had been boyfriend and girlfriend. She could not tell me Tony’s full name, but that his first name was Tony and his last was an Italian name that started with an L and ended with an O. Before we adjourned our meeting, I asked her if she could confirm the spelling of my birth mom’s name; she didn’t realize that I knew it. Once I was set on the spelling of Sarah’s name and the mysterious Tony L----o, Curtis and I were ready to tackle this case.

Hours upon hours, we dove into social media and completed online searches of people with these names linked to the town they were from. I was using my parent’s computer to search and came across the obituary of Sarah’s dad, my biological grandfather. (Side note: I was open with my adoptive parents about this search during the full duration and had their complete support.) The obituary mapped out the entire Paulson family for me - Sarah’s husband, her children, her siblings, their spouses, and children. It was a goldmine of information regarding this family tree. Later in my search I saw my birth mom for the first time. Her face appeared on the website of the elementary school from their town and, quite honestly, I was disappointed when I saw it. I was underwhelmed because I didn’t see a resemblance. That’s what I had been hoping for.

When I was little and anyone asked if I wanted to meet my birth parents, I told them that I would only like to see them from afar, just to see what they looked like. The idealized traits that I thought up weren’t there. It’s weird to know that this is obviously close and personal to me, this is my flesh and blood, but maybe because this had not been something I needed all my life, or that there hadn’t been any personal interactions, the emotions just weren’t there for me. I knew the family names, I knew her face, however, the searches through social media felt like a waste of time. Through all the quests for Sarah, her three siblings, and their significant others, only two had social media accounts. There were hardly any photos and none of Sarah herself. It was confusing and defeating to find this large family who appeared to all be in hiding.

For days Curtis and I felt like Veronica Mars, diving into leads, and following any trail to a dead end. At one point we came across a few addresses linked to Sarah and her husband. We narrowed it down to one - and then I wrote a letter. It took me days to finish the letter to Sarah because I wasn’t even sure what I wanted out of this experience. Did I want to meet her? Did I just want to be like, “Hello, I’m here”? I went with a little of both. I told her that I was grateful for her act in giving me up and I empathized with how scary that must have been for her especially at such a young age. I shared with her my parents’ experiences in trying to have a family and how beyond blessed they felt by her actions.  I told her that I had a daughter and a stepson and that by her giving me up to this loving and generous couple I was able to witness their unwavering love for me – this detail that I was not “their own” had made no difference in their care of me and I was able to live that out as a mother to my stepson. I offered peace and gratitude; I thanked her on behalf of my family and then left an open-ended invitation to meet one day if she ever wanted that.

It’s now six years later and I have not heard from her. But don’t feel sorry for me or sad on my behalf. This story is not over yet. Remember my Italian Tony? Hit fast forward to the birth of Nixon. Now in our current home, I am sitting on the floor with Nixon playing with his toes when Curtis makes a comment about whose toes Nixon has and that maybe they are from his mystery grandpa. Well shoot, here we go again. Curtis and I get right back to searching, this time focusing on Tony ‘Starts-with-an-L-ends-with-an-o.’ Again, we only came up with Facebook accounts of many, but how were we to know who we were really looking at.

At the time I was working at a coffee stand and one of our customers was an Italian man who had recently welcomed a grandson into the world. He had mentioned how his grandson was named after him, but that the baby would go by his middle name. That information stuck with me, and I applied it to my hunting. Aha, maybe Tony’s first name was not Tony.

One night, while I lay in bed unable to sleep, I had the idea to look up my bioparents’ high school. The town they grew up in only had one. I searched their alumni site for any Italian sounding name that started with an L and ended with an O. And thanks to my birth dad, or rather his parents, he had siblings. Three of them. So, the name popped up quickly. Lorenzo. I took that to Facebook and, using the insight gained from my Italian customer, I allowed my search to be more open to men with other names aside from Tony. Then I saw him. This man, wearing a polo, Richard Lorenzo. He was wearing glasses, had a darker complexion, and I just knew. I began searching through his list of friends to see who else I could find. Through the night I found siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. I noticed that one of my presumed cousins was a mutual friend with one of my closest friends. Jackpot! I texted my friend, sending a photo of my birth dad along with the name of the girl she was Facebook friends with (my biological cousin) and asked her to tell me more.

She did not instantly reply to my 2am text message, but I woke up the next morning to learn that she not only worked with that girl, but also with her mother. She asked for my permission to speak with this Facebook friend/coworker’s mom, and I said ‘Yes!’ That was the turning point in this investigation. She sent me back a photo of another man telling me that THIS was my dad. Richard Tony Lorenzo, goes by Tony.  The photo I had sent her was of my grandfather. Light bulb. Duh. He was the same age as my adoptive parents, and it hadn’t crossed my mind that I was looking for someone much younger. Twenty years younger. The man in the picture she sent me had a different look. He was tan, tattooed, and not that I knew what to expect really, but he didn’t look to me like the type who would want to meet a long-lost daughter. I was stuck.

Days passed as I sat with this information. Here he was, I had finally found him and I didn’t know if I should contact him or not. How could I get hurt if I didn’t even know the guy? Would I be upending his life? Did he care? He gave me up once, right? During this week where I was forced to process my feelings, I found another sister. Oh right, I forgot to mention that I learned I have a brother and two sisters through Tony. And holy sh*t, I look like them. When I was sifting through this sister’s profile, I saw a photo of her with another customer from the coffee shop. And not just any customer, one that was friends with my boss. My boss had been on this journey with me, I had been open about what and who I was finding and had been sharing my photos with her and my friends at work. I immediately sent her the picture and asked her to get info. That customer, my boss’s friend, was able to contact the ex-wife of my birth dad and let him know that I had found him. He wanted to hear from me! I sent him a message and later that evening I received one back. He said all the right things, and, even better, gave me his phone number to use whenever I was ready. Now, finally, I could breathe, a little.

I was ready.

So here is where we started. That same night, hours after I got his number, I was pacing our bedroom with my phone in hand, his phone number keyed in, just waiting to press send. I feel it necessary to share that his phone number was only one digit off Curtis’ friend’s and the idea that one misdial could have led to my dad – crazy. This story will continue to take on many serendipitous moments; that’s just one. The only thing I can compare this moment to is getting the courage to call your crush on the phone for the first time, unsure if they will answer the phone or maybe it will be their parents. You practice what you’re going to say in either scenario and feel the butterflies in your stomach stampeding rather than swirling. Yes, this was like that, times one hundred. The only thing between myself and this final discovery was myself…I just had to press call.

And I did.

I put the call on speaker so Curtis could hear everything, and I began the first conversation with my dad. He asked me what I knew, and I told him. I had grown up knowing only that I was Italian. And right away, he laughed and informed me that I was not Italian, “We are Mexican,” he said.  (And the advice about not getting tattoos you’ll regret quickly ran through my mind as I have one in Italian for that reason only.) He told me the entire story about my birth mom and him and a little about himself presently. He said that he had just been thinking about me, looking out at the California coast, where he lives now, wondering where I was. That’s when he was called by his ex-wife informing him of my whereabouts. Serendipity strikes again. I’ll give you the Lifetime movie details about his teenage love affair with my birth mom in a bit, but first, here’s what happened next…

He had already been planning his annual trip to Washington, to his hometown, where his parents still reside. That was only three weeks away and we both agreed that we would like to meet during this time. Leading up to that day, for those three weeks, we texted daily, and we both compared it to that feeling of dating someone new. You’re trying to learn as many details as possible and as much information about them as you can gather, but all at once. That giddy feeling is a constant stomachache. I remember he called me one time just to ask what my favorite color was - black and white, of course. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t stop thinking about this entire family I now had. I spoke with siblings and cousins, aunts, and uncles, and my grandparents. The day finally came to meet Tony and his wife. We agreed to meet by the water, downtown. It was a beautiful day, sunny and just the right temperature for someone who was nervous and couldn’t stop sweating. As we made the 10-minute drive to the docks, we listened to my favorite song, and I was freaking out inside. We parked and as we walked towards them on the marina, I thought I might pass out. When we reached one other, he extended his hands and pulled my hands into his. Then he took a step back to look at me. I cried a little. It was a moment I will never forget. The four of us, walked, talked, sat for coffee and a chocolate chip cookie (that I, naturally, smeared on my white sweater). We discovered that years ago I worked at a coffee stand across the street from his prior job. He would frequent that stand. No doubt we met then. I learned that my biological brother and I went to the same elementary school for a time, rode the same bus, and actually had mutual friends. No doubt we crossed paths. That week I also got to meet his entire family (my family) and celebrate his birthday with him. I still remember the text he sent after his birthday dinner telling me that it had been his favorite birthday. As a gift, I had made a scrapbook of photos of myself growing up and writing this “out loud,” that little girl nervous to call a boy for the first time, is here again, scrapbooking photos. Embarrassing. But I know it was a special moment for all of us and a keepsake he did not expect to receive.

Ok, ok, so now for the juicy details. Here is where Lifetime needs to take notice on this story. As I mentioned, my birth parents were from the same small town. Their families were friends and my mom, the shy, smart, athlete was secretly dating the older, bad boy. Tony would run to her family farm and their secret relationship was kept by their siblings. Tony’s younger sister was good friends with Sarah. Tony and his sister, Cori, recall their breakup. Sarah had been acting weird and called the Lorenzo home phone to break things off with Tony. He wasn’t too surprised because her behavior had been off. Cori was none the wiser thinking it was just standard etiquette for her quiet, introverted friend.  They now recall moments where they saw Sarah and thought she looked fuller figured, or when a classmate put his hands on her belly, and she freaked. Strange, but nothing that led them to imagine a teen pregnancy. It wasn’t until October 8th, when Sarah asked her younger sister for a ride to the hospital, that my presence was no longer a secret. They called her parents from the hospital to let them know their teenage daughter was giving birth to her own daughter. Something to note was that Sarah’s family was a well-known family in their tiny town. It’s one of those towns where everyone knows everyone and everything. This was not something that the Paulson’s were ready to deal with therefore did they want any word getting out. It was decided that I would be put up for adoption and that no one would know about this. After her stay at the hospital, Sarah went back to school and resumed her life as if nothing had happened. As Tony had been blindsided by my birth, he acted as a teenager might and kept the information from his own parents. Understandably, the relationship between the Paulson’s and the Lorenzo’s ceased. My grandma Lorenzo had no idea why her friends weren’t speaking to them until four years after my birth when she found the adoption paperwork stashed in the desk of Tony’s old bedroom. Devastated, they assumed I was on the East Coast somewhere because the Paulson’s wanted me gone and had the money to make it happen.

Now please don’t think that I am making them out to be the bad guys, the Capulet family in this saga. That is not my intention at all. I believe they are kind people, and we all make decisions under great stress that we may regret later. And I am in no way insinuating that they regret the decision to give me up - I don’t. With this family secret, the Paulson children grew up, had their own families and Sarah had more daughters. One, with a strikingly similar name to my own. Yikes. Her daughters were also into sports and I, by a wild coincidence, was able to watch her youngest, the same age as my Jack, play basketball – my favorite sport growing up. We were at a local gym for one of my son’s basketball tournaments when I saw my uncle, Tony’s younger brother, and his son. First, it was crazy that I had just met them and now I am recognizing them out in town – next he pointed out that Sarah’s family was also there. I mean, what? Her mother, sister, and nephew (who was playing against Jack.) This was blowing my mind and at the same time I was excited to see these family findings out in real life - not just through the internet. And remember, the Paulson’s weren’t on social media, so I felt like I was witnessing something so rare, I may never see it again. So, I am sitting there, watching Curtis coach and Jack play when in walked the unicorn herself, Sarah. My stomach dropped. She came and stood right behind me, with her Starbucks cup that had her name written on the side, as if I needed confirmation. She was accompanied by one of her daughters and her husband. Both of whom STILL DON’T KNOW ABOUT ME. I seriously contemplated taking a photo because a selfie would have captured her face too, but I was nervous. My sister played in between Jack’s games, and I got to watch as I thought about myself at that age playing these same weekend tournaments.

Years have passed since that day, and I have been no closer to communicating with that side of my family. I have daydreamed about what I could have said, who I could have approached – but even that has dwindled a bit with time. We have mutual friends who know the backstory, who haven’t been told by the Paulson’s themselves, but know, nonetheless. They have been warned by family that I am in contact with their old friends the Lorenzo’s, just as a heads-up.  Still, I have heard nothing. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t care. A mood strikes where I will go to look to see if any of their family has surfaced on socials, and while my sisters are now old enough and have accounts on Instagram – I can only see their profile pictures. The thought to reach out has crossed my mind. However, I wouldn’t dream of being the one to do so when their mom, our mom, has lived with this for so many years. I do not envy her position and I am not mad at her about it either. I have continued to have contact with my birth dad and the Lorenzo’s and work on my relationships on that side. It is hard to make up for a lifetime of memories and experiences – it’s hard to know where to start. I feel incredibly blessed to have met them and built the relationships that we have. I am even more blessed to have the parents that raised me and to have been given such a strong foundation as a child to grow and start my own family with security and love.

By default, Sarah gave me a better life, one with open communication, more love and discovery, and the greatest examples of what a healthy marriage and devout parenthood should look like.

*“It has taken me days to finish this last paragraph. I have not been sure how to end a letter such as this. I have decided that I need to be straight forward so as not to be disappointed with any response I may receive in return – including the chance that there is no response.”

A chance that I took, and I feel no regrets in doing so. You know that BS break up line, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’? In this case, it’s spot on. Only, we never got the chance to meet. I have more answers than I ever knew I would get since sending that letter to Sarah six years ago. Although they did not come in the way I had foreseen – I feel some closure.

*“When I began writing you, I was unclear of my intentions in their fullest. However, during this process my feelings have become clearer. I am not asking for a relationship – to make up for time passed. I suppose I am only looking for insight on your end. To gain closure for myself. This ultimately may be selfish, but for a girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, I see no other alternative. I am hopeful for your response, and if we ever have the opportunity to meet one day, then I look forward to that.” 

Love, Meegan.

*Excerpts from letter written to Sarah - March 22, 2015

The polaroid taken after my birth and showed to Tony. This is now in the scrapbook I gave him, which he keeps inside a Ziploc bag, inside a folder, inside a safe.

First photo taken together on the day we met. September 22, 2016. (My sweater is tucked in to hide the chocolate smudge.)