November 2005, I sat across from Zach, my relinquished son for Thanksgiving. To his left sat his biological mom and to his right, his adoptive mom. This was the first time since his birth in 1990 that all three of us were together. Pleasant time with everyone and of course that dinner was top in my mind when I got a phone call in January 2006 from the social worker telling me that “the birth mother” wanted to be in contact.

We’d just been sitting across from one another. Couldn’t she get my number from Zach? From his amom? From the other three or four people that still knew both of us? Why would she reach out through the state for contact? But first the social worker needed to confirm I was the right person.

Upon verification she asked, “Do you want your birth mother’s information?”

Puzzled at the ‘your’ I replied, “Don’t you mean Zach’s birth mother?”

“No, I mean yours.”

“But I’m not adopted.”

“I’m sor – I mean I’m not sorry, but I’m not sure I’m supposed to be the first person to tell you this. . . you’re adopted.”

And there it was. THE answer that I could never find the question to.

At 35 years old, someone finally told me the truth. These people weren’t my family. I mean on a piece of paper, sure, but not of my bones, not of my blood. And after the years of abuse, drug use, beratement and belittling, then finally estrangement, I understood why.

Zach had been the first biological family I’d ever set my eyes on. And I gave him away.

And right now I’d discovered the same thing had happened to me.

Now I have language – I am a late discovery adoptee (LDA). I’d experienced a non-parental event (NPE). Many years later I learned that I am also the son of an NPE.

At least three consecutive generations of broken family connections.

I’m part of a community – all who experienced some form of missing those moments of genetic mirroring. Some really genuinely beautiful folx who just want to know where they came from. Who just want to see someone who has their eyes.

Eventually my biomom agreed to adopt me. Setting the clock back to 0 and I’d take on my family names bringing together the Ridg and the Haus into my own name.