Eric remained engulfed in his tears, his emotions raw and unfiltered. Carefully, I placed my hand on his shoulder, and to my surprise, he didn’t flinch. I left it there, a silent gesture of support as we let the weight of his revelation hang in the air.
In moments like this, I knew that silence was the best companion.
Sometimes, words couldn’t bridge the gap between pain and understanding.
So, I waited.
As Eric gradually composed himself, I rose from my chair and made my way to the kitchen. I grabbed a pack of tissues on the way, silently chiding myself for not having them ready next to him. Handing him a glass of water, I watched as he took a long sip and then placed the empty glass on the table beside him.
“Eric,” I began, “being adopted is something that happened to you, not something you did. It wasn’t your choice. Can you tell me about your earliest memories? When did you first learn you were adopted? And whatever you feel comfortable sharing about your parents.”
He seemed more relaxed now, leaning slightly forward on his elbows.
He took a deep breath and reached for another cigarette.
The combination of facts and nicotine appeared to provide a temporary sense of ease, and he started to open up.
“I was adopted when I was five months old,” he began. “It happened in the central part of the country. I’m an only child. I can’t recall exactly when I found out about the adoption, but I think it was during my kindergarten years, maybe even preschool.”
As he spoke, he took another drag from his cigarette, filling the room with swirling smoke. “As a child,” he continued, “I had a great time. We went on countless trips, and I always had gifts. My parents made me the center of their world. I just had to say, ‘I want that,’ and they’d make it happen.”
He paused for another puff, the smoke curling around him.
“It’s always been that way,” he repeated.
“Throughout my life, I got everything I wanted, no matter what.”
“Even during my teenage years,” he went on, “when I was a mess, when I put them through hell with my behavior, they always found a way to excuse me. No matter what I did, they never blamed me. I think even if I had committed a murder, they’d find a way to make it someone else’s fault.” He chuckled softly. “They’re incredible, truly incredible.”
I leaned in and asked, “When did you decide to search for your biological parents?”
Eric’s response was immediate, as though he’d been expecting the question. “It’s not a recent decision,” he replied. “It’s been on and off my mind for many years. But I never discussed it with anyone until recently when I confided in my friend. He convinced me to meet with you. I’m not sure I would have taken this step otherwise.”
“Did you ever bring up the topic with your parents?” I pressed, eager to understand his family dynamics.
He paused, gazing up at the ceiling as if trying to recall a distant memory.
“Once,” he said after a moment. “I was around 14 or 15 at the time. I told my mother that I was curious about my biological parents.”
Eric’s voice trembled as he recounted the conversation.
“Her look… it was so hurtful that I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. She hissed, ‘Your parents? We are your parents,’ and that was the end of it. I never dared to bring up the subject again.”
Suddenly, everything fell into place. I understood the source of Eric’s anxiety, his fear, and shame. It wasn’t a feeling unique to him; I’d seen it in many adoptees.
“Eric,” I said, seizing the momentary pause, “may I share something I’ve gathered from what you’ve told me? You can tell me if it resonates with you.”
“Sure, go ahead,” he replied, surprising me with his friendly and open demeanor.
“You’ve described your parents as amazing, as having provided you with everything you ever wanted,” I began. “Now, when you want to discover your roots, it feels like a betrayal to them. It’s as if you believe that because they love you so much, your only role should be to say thank you and not seek out anyone else. Does that sound familiar?”
Eric shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly aware of its discomfort. He leaned back, creating distance between us without standing up. His gaze darted from the cigarette to the empty glass, avoiding eye contact.
Taking one final drag from the cigarette until it burned down to the filter, he stared at it for a few seconds before tossing it into the ashtray.
Then, he took a deep breath, and the room was consumed by anticipation.
