My husband found out that he was adopted when he was 19.
He was driving down the road with his childhood best friend, and Robert looked at him and asked, ”How come you never talk about the fact that you’re adopted?
”I’m not—“
The boys looked at each other, and he knew. Robert drove my husband to his oldest sister’s house, and she took one look at him, and she knew he knew. The whole town had known, and no one had ever told him.
His family was furious with Robert for telling him. Furious with them for “separating” him. His parents didn’t want him to feel any different, didn’t want him to think that he wasn’t truly one of them.
His biological mother was 19 when he was born. She raised him at first, loved him and cared for him as best as a 19-year-old, who had been raised by two alcoholic parents, could do and when it got to be too much, she asked her closest’s friends parents, who had been his babysitter, if they would be willing to adopt him. They said yes. Said they’d love to.
The minute the adoption papers were signed, they said to the young girl, ”Get the hell off my property. If you come back, I’ll shoot you.”
I don’t agree with the way my in-laws handled the situation at all, but I feel like, after seven years of marriage, I know their hearts. They aren’t bad people. I never met my husband’s biological mother, but any woman who can recognize that she isn’t the best person to raise the child, and so will give him or her up for adoption, is definitely not a bad person in my book. She loved him enough to let it go, and I imagine that that hurt her terribly.
13 years later, after we had our first child, we decided to search for his biological family. We met his birth mother’s family, and we found out that she had passed away 12 years earlier - not long after he found out that she even existed.
”Thank God,” my mother-in-law said, when we told her.
. . .
It is now day 3. There are four days remaining.
”I want to grill this evening,” he texted me. ”And have a nice, couple, of ice cold beers.”
”Can we compromise?” I asked, but I was really begging. ”- grill but no beers? I told you that I am worried about the amount of drinking you are doing. I think you are leaning towards alcoholism.”
”Courvoisier?” he tried. I ignored him.
When I got home, he had poured two glasses of wine - one big (for him) and one small (for me). He then got irritated when I asked him not to drink until my mom dropped our son off. I poured my glass down the drain. He drank his glass, then another, and another.
He seems to be in self-destruct mode, and I am in survival mode. Our hearts are no longer coinciding.
I have no desire to talk to him, except that I want to pick his brain, and I want to know what he’s thinking. What he’s done. What he plans do to. I want to know if he knows I am serious. I don’t want to lose my marriage because he thinks I will forget that he destroyed my trust and our finances.
He has been good today, otherwise. He woke up without me yelling at him, and he got the kids ready for the day while I took my shower. He made me my Thrive drink, and in the pouring rain, he moved my car into the garage so the children and I wouldn’t get wet. In the evening, he cleaned up the kitchen without being asked.
Day 3 is over, and to my knowledge, he did nothing to save our marriage. He hasn’t even verbalized this situation to his family or his friends. He isn’t speaking about it. While I suspect that he thinks that silence will make it disappear, I pray that he realizes that this mountain cannot be ignored.
Loading comments...