Meeting my birth father in person

By AMY SHANKLAND
Perfectly Imperfect

As my adoption and reunion story continues, I’ve changed some names, places, and dates.

June 13, 2015 finally arrived. I woke up that Saturday morning pleased to see the sunshine. The day was already matching my mood. I was going to finally meet my birth father.

My friend and co-worker Mary had shared with me what she felt and experienced when she had met her birth father. Her situation was like mine, as they also met at a coffee shop.

“Have you picked out what you’re going to wear yet?” she asked on the Wednesday before that weekend.

“Oh, are you kidding me? Of course, I have!” I replied. We laughed together, feeling like kindred spirits.

I had wanted to meet Jack in a cute, local, quiet coffee shop with lots of personality. But I couldn’t find anything that was close to where he was gathering with his family. So, we had to settle for a boring old Starbucks. I knew, though, that the location truly didn’t matter.

At 1:45, I was sitting at an umbrella table outside of Starbucks. Naturally, I was early. But that beautiful sunshine I had seen in the morning soon disappeared, and big fat raindrops started to fall. I begrudgingly went inside. Right away I noticed the loud music and knew that this just wouldn’t work. Thankfully there weren’t many people, and the manager was happy to oblige my request to turn down the sound system.

And right at 2 o’clock, Jack walked in the door. The first thing I noticed was his wide smile. He was tall, thin, and tan. He looked younger than his 64 years. And his gray hair was even thicker than I had realized from the pictures. Tears fell from my eyes as we hugged.

“It’s so good to meet you,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. We chatted a moment and I went back to my table while he got some coffee. He grinned when he returned.

“You definitely have the Richter blue eyes,” Jack said.

I had asked him via email if he had any pictures of him and Linda when they were in college. Early in our conversation he showed me a couple photos of Linda. That helped to break the ice, although I was irritated that I hadn’t brought my reading glasses that afternoon. The pictures were small, and it was difficult to see details.

I could make out a thin, confident, pretty young woman with pale skin and long, dark blonde hair. I texted Linda later and teasingly called her a “smoking hottie.”

“I’ll scan this and some other pictures and send them to you via email,” Jack said. “I’ve got a friend who can help me clean up the pictures, so they’ll look better. He already helped me with this one.” Jack handed me one more photo, which almost made my heart stop in my chest. It was the first picture ever taken of me in the hospital – the one that Linda had mentioned.

The photo was somewhat dark, but I could see that I was dressed in a white onesie and that I had a head full of short, dark hair. My tiny fists were drawn tight, and my mouth was open, most likely wailing about something as newborns often do. I had the typical “chicken legs” of a tiny new baby. I couldn’t stop staring at the picture.

“I made three copies, one for me, one for you, and one that I’d like you to send to Linda.” I thanked him profusely for such a wonderful gift.