Page 2 of Kansas Keeper
The woman lifts her pert chin after I stab the button to disconnect the call. Holding out the now-rumpled file folder in my direction, she says, “I have proof.”
“Your paperwork means nothing,” I say dismissively, without even glancing down at the so-called evidence she’s holding out in my direction. Narrowing my eyes into the angriest glare I can muster, I practically hiss the words, “Stay away from me, and stay away from my daughter.”
In the fraction of a second it takes for the door to swing closed after I slam it in her face, I have the pleasure of seeing her mouth fall open in dismay.
“This isn’t over!” she shouts through the closed door as I lean back on it to try to collect myself.
I now have no doubts about why the stranger seemed so familiar. My precious daughter looks just like her.Damn it!
2
MARA
The gall of that man is astounding. Of course, I never thought for a moment that he would welcome me into their home with open arms, but I had assumed that he would at least have the decency to hear me out and look at the paperwork I had carefully assembled to help this life-altering discussion make sense to them.
I plop down on the front porch steps and run my fingers through my hair as I attempt to gather my thoughts and figure out what to do now.
Tears pool in my eyes as I stare down at the mess of papers on my lap. The words blur in front of me, but their meaning doesn’t change. They prove that I am this little girl’s birth mother, and no one can take that away from me––not even her gruff adoptive father.
From the moment I had felt forced to give up my baby girl, I had never dared to dream that I might find her again. But now, she is literally on the other side of these walls from me. So close, yet still so far away.
The urge to storm into this house and demand to see her is nearly overwhelming, but I don’t want to frighten the little girl. Besides, I’ve learned over the years that the old adage about getting more flies with honey than vinegar is actually true. This situation is delicate, and I need to proceed with caution.
My hand shakes as I pull a pen out of my oversized purse and attempt to write an inscription on the book I brought for my daughter.
Several times, I lower the pen and lift it back up as I search for the perfect words to convey how much she means to me. Despite being someone who makes a small fortune in royalties from writing an entire book about my experiences, I can’t seem to come up with a single paragraph right now.
No words seem sufficient to let my child know the depth of my love for her. Even though I don’t know her, she is in my heart every moment of every single day.
Deciding that would be a good way to start, I press the pen down on the first page of the book. Closing my eyes, I let a tear trickle out as I realize that I don’t know what her adoptive parents decided to name her.
In my mind, from the moment I found out I was carrying her, I always referred to her as Grace. Some mysterious, innate sense told me that she was a girl.
But the chances that they named her Grace are slim––especially since no one ever asked me my preference for her name in those harried moments after her birth.
Writing a message to ‘Grace’ would only serve to confuse the young child, so instead I address the message ‘Dear Sweetheart.’
It’s probably presumptuous of me to use the endearment, but I do love her, despite not having seen her since the stressful, sad day of her birth.
Once the greeting is taken care of, the words flow easily. I tell her how much she means to me, explain that I want to be a part of her life, and share that I hope one day this book will help her understand why I felt compelled to put her up for adoption.
I ache to sign the inscription, “Love, Mom,” But I don’t want to step on the toes of the woman who adopted her and has raised her as her own for all of these years. I owe that woman so much, and it’s definitely in everyone’s best interest if we can get along.
Instead, I settle for writing, “I care about you more than you can imagine, Mara (Your birth mom).”
After re-reading the inscription and deciding it’s as good as I’m going to get it, I carefully set the book on the small table next to the red front porch swing.
Smiling, I shake my head at the perfect scene. It’s such a relief to see that my child is growing up in this picturesque setting. I had been concerned that Kansas would be some sort of flat, barren wasteland, much like the stark black-and-white depiction of harsh, tornado-prone farmland in theWizard of Oz, but this cozy front porch makes this house look like a home.
I just hope it’s as happy inside as it appears from the outside.
Chances are extremely high that my little girl is much better off here than she ever could have been with me, considering the situation I was stuck in when she was born. I remind myself for probably the zillionth time that I did what was best for her.
But things are different now, and the more people a child has surrounding her that love her, the better.Right?
I don’t see how having me in her life to support and encourage her could possibly be a bad thing. Reminding myself of that, I ring the doorbell once more.
When no one answers, I yell through the thick wood, “I’m leaving a book for my––err,ourdaughter out here. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
