Not quite the Brady Bunch

I don't write a lot about my brothers and sisters. I think that's because, most days, I don't acknowledge them as my siblings. Most days, I have just one brother- my adoptive parents biological son. But in reality, I share a biological mother with 8 other people on this earth. We range from ages 29 to five. Out of all of us, only 2 have remained within the biological family for their entire childhoods.  4, including myself, were placed for adoption. The rest were taken into foster care when our mother, despite her best intentions, surrendered to whatever demons plagued her.

I have only ever met 3 of my 8 siblings. I know my three sisters, two of whom are older. The younger one, who is now 18, is my full sister. I have a different relationship with each of them- ranging from stellar to nonexistant. We communicate without the intervention or involvement of our mother. And she never liked that. We are honest with one another- speaking candidly about our experiences. Our mother, terrified that we would judge her, bemoaned our communication.

"I am the mother!" she would tell us, "I need to be consulted!"

When we ignored her, explaining gently that we were all adults, and free to have relationships with whomever we choose, she would hang up the phone on us. Or, if she was feeling fiesty, she would give us an earful about what disrespectful little ingrates we were. It was always hard not to take it personally (and these episodes did, in the end, have a profound affect on my relationship with her).

One by one, she burned her bridge with each of us. Only the oldest of her children, my half sister Susan, had any sort of regular contact with her. The rest of us, wounded, did our best to forget. Pippi, who was also placed for adoption, has mastered the art of detachment. Our mother is not important- she could take her or leave her. Nicole, my full sister, has built a wall to protect herself. Our mother left her  to be raised by our father when she was three, and then popped in and out of her life. Even mentioning our mothers name unleashes such anger in her that we've all decided it's best not to bring it up.

Me? I rarely talk about her. And I've found, over the years, that people rarely ask. I am merely one of her many children, just another child that she left. It is unrealistic of me, I think, to believe that I am special to her. I am not the only child she gave up. I am not the oldest, I am not the prettiest, I am not the smartest, I am probably not the only blonde. And I'm certainly not the most compliant!

And so, I leave her be. I struggle, from afar, to understand what has happened. My mother's world was one of fantasy. She believed that fairies existed amongst the emerald hills of Ireland, that dragons inhabited the deepest caves of China. Mostly, though, she believed that her children, scattered across the globe in different families, would come back to her. That one day we would all reunite and find her. One day, all of her mistakes would be undone.

And we are coming back together. Without her. Slowly, but surely, we are fitting together the pieces of our family. In a year, Christopher will turn 18. And a few years after that, Samantha will too. And the rest will follow. I wonder if I will ever meet all of them? I wonder if they will ever want to know me. We each have different stories, different families, different lives. But we have one vital thing in common, and I guess I believe that only by coming together can we begin to understand what has torn us apart.