These past few days, all I had been doing was looking, looking, and looking for answers. I hunted for answers of which I did not even comprehend the questions. My head was swirling with crazy thoughts, and the only thing I knew was that I had to find some logical explanation for the bizarre encounter I had a few days back. I looked through my parents’ wedding photo album, and the books they had documenting each of their children’s’ lives. I looked at the same old pictures I had been looking at since birth, feeling calm and peace wash over me. These pictures brought back wonderful memories of days at the beach with my family; my dad and I out at sea while my mother extended her body on the soft sand, basking in the sun. Days of sitting on the grass in our backyard eating popsicles, while my parents told us stories of their childhood. Those are the memories I wanted to cherish. Those are the memories that made me feel like my childhood was not a lie. Now, I wondered if these moments even meant anything. I wondered if my entire life was a complete lie. Simply thinking this made me feel like a heavy weight was laid onto my heart, making me both sad and terrified at what I would discover next. Snapping out of my thoughts for a moment, I looked through all my mother’s childhood photos, things she had kept from her rebellious teenage years, and even her Colombian recipe books. I must have looked at my birth certificate a hundred times just to be positive it listed Sophia and Joseph Perez as my biological parents. For some reason, this time around, I had my doubts.
It was at the very bottom of a dusty box, set in a far corner of my basement that I found a little antique treasure box that contained the truth behind my identity. The box contained all of the answers to the questions I was frightened to ask. In that box, I saw old, intimate pictures of my mom and a man I thought was myself. Pictures of them holding hands while walking on the beach, or kissing in what seemed to be a garden. This made me feel icky; for the man looked so much like me it gave me goose bumps. Then, I began to sweat as I often do under the strings of shock. I thought I was staring into a mirror; but the man had lighter skin then I, blond hair, and intriguing green eyes that seemed to pierce right through my very soul. I dug through the box as if treasure was buried deep inside of it, feeling excited but anxious. I found letters exchanged between my mom and this man, professing their love for each other. I was so confused I began to shake uncontrollably and role my tongue in my mouth. What did my discoveries mean? I was so lost from what I was witnessing that I missed hearing my mom climb down the stairs to the basement. By the look diffused across her face when she realized what I had been doing and discovered, I knew that my suspicions were true. I had dug up the secret she had buried and kept hidden from our entire family for the past thirty years.
Earlier that same week, my wife, daughter, and I sat in the car heading towards my parents’ house for a restful family vacation. “We’re going to see grandma; we’re going to see grandpa!” chanted my little Angela from the back seat while moving her head back and forth and clapping her hands. Even watching ‘Dora the Explorer’ on our minivan’s television did not stop her from singing the entire drive to North Carolina. “We are almost there mi chica, calmate.” Her mother snorted from the front seat, moving her shoulder up and down. Pulling into the driveway of the most colorful house on Washington drive, a sense of calm washed over me. The flowers in the front yard, old basketball hoop in the driveway, and the familiar old truck parked there made me feel as if I had never left. My childhood moments of racing my siblings up and down the driveway, or challenging my brother to a game of basketball right then flashed before my eyes. It felt great to be home! Little did I know that this familiar house was not the home I had believed it to be. It was not completely my home.
Before even unloading the car, we all tip-toed quietly and entered the house. We found my mother cooking, while listening and moving her hips to and fro to the melody of loud Hispanic music. All she managed to do was drop the bowl she was holding on the checkered counter when she found us standing at the kitchen’s entryway. “My babies are here! Mis hijos!” she cried running to us. My dad ran into the kitchen to see what the commotion was about, smiling when he saw us. “I was wondering what was taking you so long, Juan.” He told me. Gaping, my mom smacked him upside the head: “You knew they were coming to visit and did not tell me anything! I mean the bedrooms aren’t ready, and I didn’t even cook my famous extra spicy enchiladas.” She panicked, throwing her hands in the air and resting on one hip. I could tell that she was upset. “It was meant to be a surprise, Sophia! Calmate.” My dad let out his low, cough-like laugh.
After my mom came back from her emotions, dinner was cooked and eaten, and news about recent events in each other’s lives given. Then, plans for the vacation were made. My mom had been quiet through it all, as if she were preoccupied by something. Out of the blue, while fiddling with the table cloth, she sternly told me: “Juan, I’m going to need you to go to the library and get Angela some Spanish books. Even though you do not think it important to speak to her in Spanish and share our culture with her, under my roof,that is all she will know!” By the tone of her voice, I knew this was not a suggestion, but an order. Hanging my head, I said: “Yes mama, I’ll go to the library as you asked, and speak Spanish with Angela.” I always hated disappointing my mother, for she had been nothing but good to me. Making her angry made me ashamed and mad at myself. I had always had a close relationship with her, not even minding being called a ‘Mama’s boy’.
As always, Angela was excited the whole way to the library; clapping her hands and swinging her feet from her car seat. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she began to run about, causing my head to spin. I immediately put my hands to my head, massaging my temples. We went about, collecting different Spanish children story books, cookbooks for my mom, and car maintenance booklets for my dad. We walked hand in hand when Angela was not running off ahead of me. I loved spending alone time with her. Loved seeing her smile that warmed my heart. She was growing up so quickly I sometimes thought she was still my two year old little baby.
When we arrived at the check-out stand, Angela tugged on my shirt: “Daddy,” she said looking up. “this old man looks just like you!” Hearing this, the librarian smiled. I had been seeing this man in this same library my entire life, but had never noticed the resemblance between the two of us before then. “Excuse her.” I told him, not being able to look into his eyes. There was something so warm and familiar about this man that it unnerved me and made me sweat. “You might want to listen to your brilliant girl once in a while, Juan.” The librarian told me with a cool air. The fact that he knew my name frightened me, causing me to leave all of the books on the plain, brown counter and dash out of the building, Angela clinging to my neck. I mean, I know that as a kid, he had probably heard my mom calling me in this building, but how could he have remembered? Upon arriving home, I did not mention this encounter to anyone. I was so deeply lost in my own thoughts that I mumbled something about getting the books later when asked where they were. I spent the rest of the afternoon lost in my thoughts, staring into blank space. I had a really bad feeling about this.
Days after this strange meeting, I could not shake the feeling or image of that man out of my head. Simply to calm my mind, I asked relatives that I went to visit about my childhood. All of them gave me accounts such as: “You loved Joseph and you were always found sitting in the driveway, watching him work on cars.” Or “Your parents’ love was seen more after you were born then before they were married. Oh how they loved each other!” They all told me these tales with huge smiles on their faces accompanied by dreamy looks. For all I could remember, everything that they had said was true. I only had great memories of my family’s bond and love during my childhood. But what if it was all an act, and I had been too young to notice back then?
The stories did not help me, for I was trying to find something out of place in my mom’s past relationships. I even tried asking her; but she simply got a dreamy and happy look on her face, not even answering my question. So I decided to do my own digging; looking at old family albums, documents, and cherished items. It is at the bottom of an old dusty box, placed at a far corner of the basement that I found the answers I was looking for. My mom tried to explain to me that she was in love, and even tried to convince me to keep quiet about my discoveries. I was repulsed by what she had the audacity to ask me. I was beyond hurt that she had never told me the truth; and devastated for my “dad” who thought I was his son. Although I would probably forget my mom for lying, that day, I found the answers that proved that the librarian was the man that looked like me in the pictures. The answers that affirmed that my siblings and I were conceived by the same woman, but not the same man. The answers that proved that my life was based on a lie. The answers that changed my life forever.
It was at the very bottom of a dusty box, set in a far corner of my basement that I found a little antique treasure box that contained the truth behind my identity. The box contained all of the answers to the questions I was frightened to ask. In that box, I saw old, intimate pictures of my mom and a man I thought was myself. Pictures of them holding hands while walking on the beach, or kissing in what seemed to be a garden. This made me feel icky; for the man looked so much like me it gave me goose bumps. Then, I began to sweat as I often do under the strings of shock. I thought I was staring into a mirror; but the man had lighter skin then I, blond hair, and intriguing green eyes that seemed to pierce right through my very soul. I dug through the box as if treasure was buried deep inside of it, feeling excited but anxious. I found letters exchanged between my mom and this man, professing their love for each other. I was so confused I began to shake uncontrollably and role my tongue in my mouth. What did my discoveries mean? I was so lost from what I was witnessing that I missed hearing my mom climb down the stairs to the basement. By the look diffused across her face when she realized what I had been doing and discovered, I knew that my suspicions were true. I had dug up the secret she had buried and kept hidden from our entire family for the past thirty years.
Earlier that same week, my wife, daughter, and I sat in the car heading towards my parents’ house for a restful family vacation. “We’re going to see grandma; we’re going to see grandpa!” chanted my little Angela from the back seat while moving her head back and forth and clapping her hands. Even watching ‘Dora the Explorer’ on our minivan’s television did not stop her from singing the entire drive to North Carolina. “We are almost there mi chica, calmate.” Her mother snorted from the front seat, moving her shoulder up and down. Pulling into the driveway of the most colorful house on Washington drive, a sense of calm washed over me. The flowers in the front yard, old basketball hoop in the driveway, and the familiar old truck parked there made me feel as if I had never left. My childhood moments of racing my siblings up and down the driveway, or challenging my brother to a game of basketball right then flashed before my eyes. It felt great to be home! Little did I know that this familiar house was not the home I had believed it to be. It was not completely my home.
Before even unloading the car, we all tip-toed quietly and entered the house. We found my mother cooking, while listening and moving her hips to and fro to the melody of loud Hispanic music. All she managed to do was drop the bowl she was holding on the checkered counter when she found us standing at the kitchen’s entryway. “My babies are here! Mis hijos!” she cried running to us. My dad ran into the kitchen to see what the commotion was about, smiling when he saw us. “I was wondering what was taking you so long, Juan.” He told me. Gaping, my mom smacked him upside the head: “You knew they were coming to visit and did not tell me anything! I mean the bedrooms aren’t ready, and I didn’t even cook my famous extra spicy enchiladas.” She panicked, throwing her hands in the air and resting on one hip. I could tell that she was upset. “It was meant to be a surprise, Sophia! Calmate.” My dad let out his low, cough-like laugh.
After my mom came back from her emotions, dinner was cooked and eaten, and news about recent events in each other’s lives given. Then, plans for the vacation were made. My mom had been quiet through it all, as if she were preoccupied by something. Out of the blue, while fiddling with the table cloth, she sternly told me: “Juan, I’m going to need you to go to the library and get Angela some Spanish books. Even though you do not think it important to speak to her in Spanish and share our culture with her, under my roof,that is all she will know!” By the tone of her voice, I knew this was not a suggestion, but an order. Hanging my head, I said: “Yes mama, I’ll go to the library as you asked, and speak Spanish with Angela.” I always hated disappointing my mother, for she had been nothing but good to me. Making her angry made me ashamed and mad at myself. I had always had a close relationship with her, not even minding being called a ‘Mama’s boy’.
As always, Angela was excited the whole way to the library; clapping her hands and swinging her feet from her car seat. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she began to run about, causing my head to spin. I immediately put my hands to my head, massaging my temples. We went about, collecting different Spanish children story books, cookbooks for my mom, and car maintenance booklets for my dad. We walked hand in hand when Angela was not running off ahead of me. I loved spending alone time with her. Loved seeing her smile that warmed my heart. She was growing up so quickly I sometimes thought she was still my two year old little baby.
When we arrived at the check-out stand, Angela tugged on my shirt: “Daddy,” she said looking up. “this old man looks just like you!” Hearing this, the librarian smiled. I had been seeing this man in this same library my entire life, but had never noticed the resemblance between the two of us before then. “Excuse her.” I told him, not being able to look into his eyes. There was something so warm and familiar about this man that it unnerved me and made me sweat. “You might want to listen to your brilliant girl once in a while, Juan.” The librarian told me with a cool air. The fact that he knew my name frightened me, causing me to leave all of the books on the plain, brown counter and dash out of the building, Angela clinging to my neck. I mean, I know that as a kid, he had probably heard my mom calling me in this building, but how could he have remembered? Upon arriving home, I did not mention this encounter to anyone. I was so deeply lost in my own thoughts that I mumbled something about getting the books later when asked where they were. I spent the rest of the afternoon lost in my thoughts, staring into blank space. I had a really bad feeling about this.
Days after this strange meeting, I could not shake the feeling or image of that man out of my head. Simply to calm my mind, I asked relatives that I went to visit about my childhood. All of them gave me accounts such as: “You loved Joseph and you were always found sitting in the driveway, watching him work on cars.” Or “Your parents’ love was seen more after you were born then before they were married. Oh how they loved each other!” They all told me these tales with huge smiles on their faces accompanied by dreamy looks. For all I could remember, everything that they had said was true. I only had great memories of my family’s bond and love during my childhood. But what if it was all an act, and I had been too young to notice back then?
The stories did not help me, for I was trying to find something out of place in my mom’s past relationships. I even tried asking her; but she simply got a dreamy and happy look on her face, not even answering my question. So I decided to do my own digging; looking at old family albums, documents, and cherished items. It is at the bottom of an old dusty box, placed at a far corner of the basement that I found the answers I was looking for. My mom tried to explain to me that she was in love, and even tried to convince me to keep quiet about my discoveries. I was repulsed by what she had the audacity to ask me. I was beyond hurt that she had never told me the truth; and devastated for my “dad” who thought I was his son. Although I would probably forget my mom for lying, that day, I found the answers that proved that the librarian was the man that looked like me in the pictures. The answers that affirmed that my siblings and I were conceived by the same woman, but not the same man. The answers that proved that my life was based on a lie. The answers that changed my life forever.