Somebody's Daughter--a moving journey of discovery, recovery and adoption

by Zara. H Phillips

  I know I sound self–pitying, but I don’t care.

  ‘I want him to want me. I want him to shout from the rooftops about it, the way I want to. Is that too much to ask?’

  I hear my friend laugh and I’m grateful. The desire to use drugs is passing and instead a fatigue has taken over. For the first time, I have reached out to people and let them see my deepest pain. How many times have I done this alone? I don’t want to do it anymore.

  The next morning, I’m out running errands when I check my phone and see that there’s an email from the paternity test people: my results are in. I want to read it right now, but decide to wait until I’m home. I can’t get home fast enough. I pull up to my house and charge upstairs.

  I click on the link.

  I’m scared, but I have to know.

  Father: Antonio P. is not excluded as the biological father. 99.9 percent.

  Mother: Patricia G.

  Baby: Zara Phillips.

  It’s him! It’s really him. For the first time in my life, I see all three of our names together on one page. All three of us woven together, three strangers, connected. A deep sense of relief washes over me.

  23

  My Father, 2016

  ‘Hi, Antonio…’ As promised, he is the first person I call. ‘The results are in. You’re my birth father.’

  ‘Oh my God! I’m on the highway, I’ll call you back.’

  Moments later, he calls back.

  ‘I had to pull over,’ he explains. ‘Life is indeed full of surprises! My wife, she’s gonna kill me. I need some time to think. I will tell her, though. I promise, okay?’

  ‘It’s okay, I know you need time,’ I say, not being totally honest. I want him to tell her, I don’t want to be his secret.

  ‘Zara, you know this is a shock, but I’m happy.’

  My eyes instantly fill with tears; I’m thrilled.

  ‘I am too, Antonio.’

  Now I have to wait and let him do what he needs to do. I feel like all I do is wait for others to be ready to acknowledge my existence. After all these years, I just want to spend time with him. Already we’ve lost so much time together and I don’t want to waste any more.

  I haven’t told my adoptive father about Antonio – I don’t want to hurt him the way I hurt my mother. Does he need to know? Will it ruin the relationship it took us so many years to build? Would he be angry, or happy for me? I don’t know, but I don’t want to take that risk. I haven’t spoken to my brother in two years. The last time I saw him we got in a fight so I’ve realised it is better that I keep my distance. I wish I could talk to a family member, but it doesn’t feel safe.

  Days are turning to weeks. Antonio phones, but all he has is excuses for why he hasn’t told his wife about me yet. I try not to take it personally but the waves of emotion threaten to overwhelm me again. I try to stand as strong and tall as I can. I go to yoga and the gym; it makes me feel calmer. I surrender, accepting my powerlessness. I have to trust that this will play out the way it’s meant to.

  Michelle and I talk on the phone. We feel like twins separated at birth and I’m so grateful to know her.

  ‘Zara, I’m coming to New Jersey next week. It’s time we get him to take us to meet his wife,’ she says.

  I had broken down to her on the phone, the waiting getting to me again. I knew Antonio needed time, but I also knew he had a lot of shame: he might never tell her.

  His wife, though, already suspected something was up. She had texted Michelle to ask if there was another child out there. Michelle told her the truth; that we were waiting for confirmation. But I had confirmation now, there could be no more doubt.

  So I tell Antonio that Michelle is coming and could we meet, but he continues to be scared. I urge him to try, as it could be the only time all three of us get together.

  The morning Michelle is coming to New Jersey, she texts me: ‘I’m so disappointed. It doesn’t seem like he’ll be in town, but at least we can spend time together.’

  Five minutes later, my phone rings: it’s him.

  ‘Hi, so we’re back from Connecticut. What’s happening today?’

  Stunned, I try my best to downplay it.

  ‘I’m on my way to pick up Michelle and then we’ll come and meet you. I’ll call you from the car.’

  I don’t want to give him an excuse to not show up.

  I pick up Michelle completely shaking at finally meeting her but amazed at how close I feel to her already, and we call our father from the car: ‘Hello, Antonio! The girls are on their way.’ We can hear him laugh nervously.

  ‘You are both in the car?’

  ‘Yes,’ we reply in unison.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he says, laughing again. ‘Okay, okay… Drive safely. See you soon. Dunkin’ Donuts, okay?’

  ‘Yes, Antonio, our favourite place.’

  Michelle turns and says to me, ‘You know, he just needs a little push, that’s all. Today we have to get him to take you to meet his wife. She’s lovely, I promise. We have to keep our eyes on the prize.’

  ‘What would I do without you?’ I say. I feel so incredibly grateful for her help – I don’t think I would have the courage to do this alone.

  We talk about another strange coincidence in the story of our reunion. A British adopted friend of mine, Nicole, has known Michelle’s birth mother for years. A few years back, Nicole learnt that her friend was a birth mother and had reunited with her daughter, Michelle, who had recently met her father, Antonio. Nicole asked her friend if she thought it could possibly be the same man. Michelle remembered her mother telling her that another adopted person was looking for a man named Antonio, but she hadn’t thought it could be possible.

  ‘The adoption community in LA can’t believe our story – we know all the same people.’

  ‘I know, it’s ridiculous. If I’d stayed in LA, we would have ended up sitting in a support group or a conference together,’ I reply.

  ‘No one put the pieces together, even though they knew we were both looking for a man with the same name – I think the accents threw them. How could we be related when we sound so different?’

  ‘You can’t make this stuff up, can you?’

  * * *

  As we pull into the Dunkin’ Donuts car park, Antonio is already seated at a table, sipping his coffee. He looks so serious – we’ve never seen him like this before. We both try to lighten the mood by making jokes. I hand him the ‘It’s a Girl’ balloon and he smiles.

  ‘It’s a girl alright,’ he says.

  ‘So,’ Michelle says, getting straight to the point. She leans towards him and asks gently, ‘Don’t you think it’s time to tell Lisa?’

  ‘What, now?’ He blinks.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Let’s all go and see her right now.’

  I’ve been sitting quietly this whole time. Then I find myself saying to him, ‘Just say, “Whoops, here’s another one!”’

  For some reason, it’s broken the ice. Suddenly he can’t stop laughing. He leans into me, tears in his eyes.

  ‘You are such a crazy banana.’

  Michelle and I look at one another, laughing with him at the absurdity of the situation.

  ‘Okay, I will call her and tell her we’re on our way.’

  I’m seized by panic.

  Antonio is yelling into the phone: ‘Michelle’s here, we’re coming to the house! Yes, I know it’s a surprise. I didn’t know she was coming. Stop worrying about the bloody house! We’ll be there in a minute.’ We can hear a faint woman’s voice shouting down the phone. He hangs up.

  ‘Follow me.’

  My nerves are at an all-time high. Michelle keeps me calm; she knows how I feel.

  We follow him in my car; I see the balloon bobbing in the back of his car.

  He is already parked as we pull in. Michelle gets out of the car and walks up to the front door, where Antonio is waiting. I linger awkwardly by the car.

  Antonio waves me into the house. ‘Get in the house. Go, go!’<
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  I feel like my heart could stop at any moment. I’m led into a sitting room, where I wait by myself. I can hear a lady with a thick New Jersey accent shouting in the next room.

  ‘I can’t believe this! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would have prepared something. Antonio, put the vacuum away! Michelle, I’m a mess, don’t look at me! Antonio, I’m going to kill you! Why do you do this to me?’ I feel ready to run out of the house.

  ‘Lisa, Lisa,’ Michelle says quietly, ‘it’s okay. We have a surprise for you. Someone is here to meet you.’

  There’s dead silence. I’m frozen, unsure of what to do. Then a beautiful, petite woman with blonde hair is standing in front of me.

  ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Do you not live in Italy?’

  She knew who I was straight away – she had suspected for weeks that there might be another child out there after overhearing a conversation with Michelle.

  ‘No, I’m British and I live in New Jersey.’ My voice is quiet.

  She stands for a moment, just looking at me.

  ‘You’re British? You live in New Jersey? Okay, now I’m shocked.’

  She’s clearly stunned. Then without any more hesitation, she walks over to me and gives me a warm hug. ‘Welcome to the family! What’s one more, eh?’

  I’m so touched by her generous spirit as she ushers us to the table. As tea is being made, she pulls out the family photo albums, laying them on the table. Michelle takes photos of me: ‘Watching you reminds me of me just a few years ago, sitting here doing the same thing.’

  ‘You girls are lovely,’ Lisa says, and then quietly to me, ‘I knew there was another daughter – I overheard him talking on the phone. He is so ashamed. That’s why he didn’t tell me.’

  As I sit looking at the photos, I feel completely overcome. I see pictures of all his sisters and brothers, his mother and father; I see myself in some of my aunts. I see my children in their children. I start to cry. I look up and Antonio has tears in his eyes.

  ‘I want you to know I’m happy,’ he says.

  * * *

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I tell my new sister as we hug goodbye. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I would never have had the courage to push like this.’

  ‘Even if we weren’t sisters, I would still have wanted to be your friend. You know that, right?’ she says.

  That evening, I text Lisa to thank her for her kindness in accepting me into the family, fully aware not every woman would react like this.

  ‘If I were adopted, I would want to know who my parents were. I’m so sorry you had to go through all of this.’ she replies.

  I feel so immensely happy. For them to acknowledge me was more healing than they could ever understand.

  * * *

  Just before Christmas, I invite Antonio and Lisa over to meet my daughters. Sadly, my son Samuel is away, so he won’t get to meet them.

  I notice how I’m still preparing myself for a rejection: what if Antonio cancels? When he calls to see how I am, I’m immensely happy. I know from experience that this is the typical roller-coaster ride adoptees can expect when they reunite with their birth family. Somehow, I thought that now I was older I would be able to handle it better. And in some ways, I can – I understand it more, but my emotions still sway back and forth like the tide.

  I’ve even invited my ex-husband Kevin to meet Antonio. He’s curious to meet the man I’ve been looking for all these years. I think back to the time he came with me to the Italian festival. He supported me as best he could during my outbursts and through my frustration. I’m glad that we get along much better now and he can come to the house. Antonio is here, and my girls are chatting with him and Lisa. The atmosphere is relaxed. He has brought along a briefcase of photos and is enjoying showing them off.

  ‘That’s all he does with his retirement, organise photos. He’s thrilled to have someone so interested,’ Lisa jokes to me.

  I’m shocked by how closely I resemble one of his sisters. But why should it be strange that I look like my aunt? I know it’s normal to look like a blood relative, but it’s still so alien to me.

  I watch Kevin talk to my birth father and I’m grateful for his interest, while feeling a tinge of sadness about how our relationship ended. Was it all because of my divided identity? I’ve thought about it a lot over the last three years. How could a couple who once loved each other so much end up unable to have a civil conversation? It still breaks my heart. I miss our family being a single unit, but I know this is best for both of us. And I wonder, why did I only meet Antonio now? Why not when I was still married? I think of the voice I heard that night, saying, ‘It’s all part of the bigger picture.’

  I knew I was getting close.

  24

  Now

  There is nothing sweeter in life than London at Christmas time. This year I’m visiting with all my children and I’m so excited. We’re going to see my adoptive father for Christmas Eve, as well as my birth mother, my aunts and my nieces and nephews. I’m also going to meet one of my new brothers for the first time.

  I had already spoken to this brother on the phone. Allessandro was Antonio’s fourth child, the youngest, and he is a well-established artist in London. I’m thrilled that we have our love of the arts in common. He understands how I feel because he didn’t get to grow up with his birth father either.

  I’m glad I have my children with me as we make the long drive to his house. It’s Boxing Day and Allessandro’s whole family and his wife’s family will be there too. As soon as he found out about my existence he was so supportive and so happy to have us come and meet everyone. I’m the surprise again, the stranger who happens to be his sister.

  I’m nervous, joking with the kids that finally I don’t have to meet a new family member on my own as we arrive at the house and Allessandro comes to the door. I feel awkward, unsure of what to say, but I’m immediately overwhelmed by his height, his handsome face; his eyes so much like mine. He welcomes us in and I notice how his whole family is staring: we look so much alike. We compare hands and features; we both realise how much we take after Antonio.

  The day is perfect. We are all seated around a large kitchen table, the conversation flowing easily. The atmosphere is so warm and welcoming, I am overcome once more by the feeling of connection.

  At the end of the day, I’m sad to leave them – I wish I could spend more time talking to my brother, but we need to go and see my dad. I’m still wondering whether or not to tell him about Antonio. I’ve lived my whole life burdened with secrets. I had lovers that no one could know about. I had family members that didn’t know about me. I’ve kept secrets from my adoptive family. Even I was a secret… I feel weary from carrying them all.

  When I see him, my father looks thinner. He’s struggling to move around even more. I decide not to tell him. What’s the point of telling him at this stage in his life? Do I want this for him, or for myself? I’m not sure anymore.

  * * *

  Late one evening, Cassie comes over to the house we are looking after in London while my friend is away. The kids are in their rooms, watching movies. We sit on the big sofa, cups of tea in hand.

  ‘The whole thing is just so odd,’ I tell her sleepily. ‘I mean, think of all the men we’ve shagged!’

  ‘Between us?’ she says. ‘I shudder with horror.’

  ‘But that’s what I mean. If we had ended up pregnant with one of them, we’d have no idea who the father was.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘What I mean is, those liaisons weren’t about love. They were because of lust, or alcohol.’ My voice is pensive. ‘I had wanted my conception to be something more than just two young people fooling around. When I hear other adopted people say their birth parents were madly in love, I almost feel jealous.’

  ‘Why does that matter?’ Cassie looks at me steadily.

  ‘Because somehow I always knew I was a mistake. I’ve never felt like I had the same right to exist as everyone else.
I know it sounds dramatic, but I feel like a second-class citizen, I just wanted to be the product of love.’

  ‘Oh, Zara!’ Cassie says earnestly. ‘You have a life full of love. Look at everything you have. I wish you knew how much the people in your life care about you.’

  ‘I do, Cassie. At least, I’m finally beginning to.”

  ‘Then that has to be enough.’

  * * *

  I knew she was right: it was time to rid myself of the burden that I had carried for so long. I was loved; my life was full of it. The divorce had knocked the wind out of me, but I was finally ready to let it go. It was time to forgive myself for my mistakes. ‘What’s done is done’, I had read recently. I had found those gentle words so comforting. I couldn’t change what I had done in my marriage, all the mistakes I’d made: what was done was done.

  Divorce is a lot like a death in the family. Yet instead of only remembering their good qualities the way we do when someone passes away, in divorce the beautiful memories become hidden. It’s too painful to remember our family as it once was, whole and happy. But as I lay in the small, lumpy bed, I realised that if I kept punishing myself, I would never be able to allow those good memories to return. I needed to remember the good times, and so did my children.

  As I fall asleep, a forgotten memory surfaces: Kevin and I are on the beach with the children. Samuel is about six, Katie and Anna a few years younger. We’re all building a huge sandcastle. The waves are coming now, destroying parts of the beautiful home we have built. The more the waves come flooding in, the more furiously we work at keeping our house safe. How proud we all were that our castle survived while others hadn’t. Back then we felt like we could survive anything, that we would always be protected. We held hands, singing and dancing around our sand home. I thought about how pretty the sky looked that day.

  * * *

  The next day, I stroll through the London streets to meet James and Terry. Samuel has taken his sisters to a museum, proud that he knows his way around London so well – we always make sure to meet up when I’m here. I meet up with them on Hampstead Heath. There are some kites flying high in the air, their colours dancing and colliding against the blue sky. We lie on our backs in the cold grass, talking about this and that. I’m grateful that we don’t discuss anything too deep, I need a rest from heavy – it’s fun to just be with them.