Sort of Adopted

I left home at 12 years old
to live with family
in a brand new country.

My mother had given up
my sister and I
to her aunt (my grandmother’s sister)
in what appeared to be an adoption of sorts.

My grand aunt had painted
a nice picture for my mother
and I was looking forward
to a better life.

It was certainly nice at first,
I can’t deny the joy I felt
at being showered with

more food and clothes,
a bike, roller skates,
my own bed, and many things
I was never used to.

My father was not
a presence in my life
so that was that.

I was adopted,
that was the story
I was being told.

Just a last name change
would seal the deal,
that’s all I remember.

I was simply asked
if
I wanted my last name changed
and my response was
“NO!”
although I hated
my father’s legacy at the time;
I hated
that he had abandoned his children,
plus my original last name ryhmed
better with my first name
and it was all I had ever known.

Seemed like the
whole adoption thing tanked.
I’m not sure where I stand to this day.

Saying no was like poison.
I received so much backlash
for my reply.

The promise I made to myself
to help my mother as a child
wouldn’t have happened
if I had said yes to that name change.
I didn’t know that at the time.
I was just a kid.

To be continued…

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