There was an ongoing joke in my family that I had been adopted. Neither my older sister nor I looked like either of my parents, however it was my flaming red hair and pale, freckle-less skin that definitely made me an original in the family. My long-legged limbs also stood out when surrounded by short, dumpy relatives. Sometimes I even believed that I had really been adopted, despite being reassured by my mother that I was the spitting image of my deceased grandmother when she was my age.
As my sister and I were close in age (11 months difference), growing up we were the best of friends and the worst of enemies. Whenever we would have a fight she would always get the last laugh by pointing out that she was our parent’s “real” child and I was a merely a leftover. As we got older, my artistic ability led me to become an interior designer. This career was a world apart from our family of accountants and doctors and my sister’s law career, which led even my parents to joke that my talents must have originated from my “real” parents.
A few days after the death of my father, the job of sorting out his possessions in their house was left to me, as my mother was too upset. Of particular interest to me was an old trunk in the upstairs cupboard filled with old photographs and keepsakes. My father was a hoarder and had kept all sorts of bits and pieces. He had kept wedding invitations, serviettes — even old toy cars.
At the bottom of the trunk was a birth certificate for a Melissa Johns with the same birth date as my older sister. Her name was Mel. Coincidence? My mind ticking over with horror, I flicked through the bunch of photographs until I came to a bundle all tied together. Opening this, I saw a woman in various stages of pregnancy, sometimes with my parents and sometimes alone. Who was this woman? Was it possible that it was my sister who was adopted and not me?
It was a couple of months before I thought it was appropriate to begin questioning my mother. When I sat down with her and started talking, she was horrified that I had found out and was especially scared of Mel discovering the truth. She said that when she and my father were trying to conceive, they were informed by a doctor that the chances were slim at best.
At this stage, Mum’s sister had three children, all under the age of six, and she offered to carry a child for Mum. Mum said that although she herself was not carrying Mel, it was as close as it could possibly be because it was her sister. She said that she attended all of the doctor visits and loved the unborn baby as if it were her own.
A couple of months after Mel was born, Mum discovered that she was pregnant — with me. Despite the initial shock, she welcomed the addition to the family and also the chance to go through the pregnancy personally. Mel and I were raised as sisters, with Mel’s biological mum and dad as our aunt and uncle.
I made a promise to Mum that I would not tell Mel about her adoption. It is a promise that sits heavily on my conscience, especially at family get-togethers where she and my aunt appear to have a close bond. But despite this guilt, I still smile smugly whenever I think of Mel teasing me about looking different to Mum and Dad. If only she knew!
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