I left my birth home at 12 years old
to live with family
in an unfamiliar country.
My biological mother gave my sister and me
to her aunt (my grandmother’s sister)
in what appeared to be an adoption.

My grand aunt had painted
a delightful picture for my mother
and I was looking forward
to a better life.
It was subtle at first,
I can’t deny the joy I felt
when being showered with
more food and clothes,
a bike, roller skates,
my own bed, and many things
I only received often enough to appreciate
those precious moments of giving.

My father was not
a constant presence in my life
so that was that one-sided story.

I got adopted,
that was the story
everyone heard, just a last name change
would seal the deal,
that’s all I remember.

One day, my auntie asked me
I wanted my last name changed
and my response was
although I hated
my father’s legacy at the time;
I hated
that he had abandoned his children,
plus my original last name rhymed
better with my first name
and it was all I had ever known.

Seemed like the
whole adoption thing tanked after that,
I’m not sure where I stand to this day.
Saying no was like poison.
I received so much backlash
for my response.

But 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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