By AMY SHANKLAND
Perfectly Imperfect
After finding out the non-identifying info about my biological parents, life went on. By the time the fall of 2009 rolled around, I had been working in city hall for the mayor for almost three years. I had been able to work from home up until our boys started kindergarten, which was a huge blessing, but was now thoroughly enjoying my job as a grant coordinator.
John even had a turn as a stay-at-home dad for a while. In October 2009 he started a new job as a salesperson and our finances began to turn around. Jonathon and Jacob, of course, got a little older and easier to manage. They brought us a great deal of joy and we were involved in many of their activities, including Cub Scouts, soccer, and piano lessons. I loved volunteering in their classroom on occasion and served for a couple of years on the PTO.
In the spring of 2013, a few incidents once again rocked my world. The first was my mother falling and breaking her leg. I can’t even describe my drive to Mishawaka on the day of receiving that awful news. My mind went numb.
Mom never was the same afterwards. She had to stay in a rehabilitation facility until October. I traveled up north to see her twice a month for visits or doctor’s appointments and thanked God that John could take over with the kids when needed.
Somehow during all of that, while working and being a wife, mother, and daughter, I self-published my first novel. I remember Mom bragging to all the nursing aides at the facility about me.
“Look, my daughter wrote a book!” She exclaimed, showing off the shiny new paperback. My mother, sister, niece, and I all shared a passion for reading. It truly was the glue that bound us together. Now the four of us could read something that I had created. That was an incredible feeling.
I also became friends with our new office manager that year. Mary and I had a lot in common. We were both 42, practicing Catholics, and married with two children. Her son and daughter were both Jonathon’s age. Mary was kind, wise, and thoughtful. She was just as beautiful on the outside as she was on the inside.
Mary and her husband had adopted both of their children as well. And I was surprised to hear one day over lunch that Mary herself had been adopted by her stepfather, who had died not long ago.
“He was and always will be my daddy,” she told me. “But I found my real father years ago and we have a good relationship, too.” Of course, I was intrigued.
“Really? How did all that happen?” I asked.
“Well, it wasn’t easy, and my mother wasn’t too happy at first.” She replied. Mary told me all about the process and how her father now just lived a mere 45 minutes away. She also told me that she would encourage her children to someday find their biological parents as well. My heart melted at her words.
“You don’t know how amazing that is for me to hear,” I said. And I proceeded to share my story with her. I told her about my conclusion that I would wait until my mom passed away to search for my birthparents. Mary was silent for a moment after that statement.
“But Amy, they were 20 when they had you?” She asked. I nodded.
“That means they’re in their early 60s now. Hopefully they’re both alive and well, but what if you wait too much longer and something happens?” I thought about my own dad who had died suddenly at age 61. What Mary was saying made sense.