Chapter 10 - Telling Hattie
Dr. Miriam Cole did not allow me to turn disclosure into a confession marathon.
“This is Hattie’s story,” she said. “Not the place where you relieve your guilt.”
Fair.
We met in her office.
Warm room.
Too many stuffed animals.
Hattie chose a purple beanbag.
I sat beside her.
She looked suspicious.
“Is this about Evelina?”
“Partly.”
Dr. Cole said:
“Your dad has something important to explain about when you were a baby.”
Hattie looked at me.
I started.
“When babies are born, there is the person whose body they grew inside.”
“Tummy.”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes the person who gives birth becomes the parent raising the baby. Sometimes another family becomes the child’s family through adoption.”
She stared.
I continued.
“You joined our family through adoption.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened.
“Mara knew?”
“Mara and I adopted you together.”
“My Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“She picked me?”
That nearly broke me.
“Yes.”
“Like store?”
“No.”
Dr. Cole intervened gently.
“Not like buying. Your birth mother chose an adoption plan, and then a judge made Mara and your dad your legal parents.”
Hattie looked at me.
“Birth mother?”
“Yes.”
“Evelina lady?”
“No.”
I almost laughed from relief at the question.
“Her name is June.”
“June.”
“She gave birth to you.”
“Why she not keep me?”
The question I had feared.
Dr. Cole let me answer.
“She was young and decided she could not give you the life she wanted for you then. She chose adoption.”
“Did she love me?”
“Yes.”
“How know?”
“Because she wrote letters.”
That was when I brought the box.
Not all letters.
A few age-appropriate ones Dr. Cole selected.
Hattie looked at one photograph of June holding a dog at the animal hospital.
“She likes dogs.”
“Very much.”
Hattie’s eyes filled.
Then:
“Was Mommy fake?”
“No.”
I said it too quickly.
Then slower.
“Mara was your mother. She raised you. She loved you. Adoption does not make that pretend.”
“June mother?”
“June is your birth mother.”
“Two?”
“In different ways.”
Hattie wiped her eyes angrily.
“Why you not tell?”
There it was.
I could not blame grief completely.
“I was scared it would confuse you after Mommy died.”
“It confuse now.”
“Yes.”
“I wish before.”
“So do I.”
She looked at me for a long time.
Then crawled off the beanbag and sat in my lap.
Not forgiveness ceremony.
She was seven.
She needed closeness.
I held her.
May you like
The secret stopped belonging to Evelina that day.
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