The story of my birth mother’s life is the saddest story I’ve ever heard.
I have pieced together a rough draft of Lillian’s life, based on documents and interviews with family members and a close friend. I only have bits and pieces, not the whole story. What I’ve woven together is far from complete but the more I learn about my mother, the more I want to know.
Born around 1934 in Daviess County in southern Indiana, my mother had enough brothers and sisters to fill a one-room schoolhouse. She was one of about 12 children. Feeding and sheltering that many kids proved impossible for her parents who struggled through the Depression. My mother and her siblings were separated, sent to live as foster children in the homes of strangers. One of my mother’s foster moms was a woman with a “wicked tongue,” according to her daughter. My mother cleaned the family’s house and did other chores. She liked to draw and read fiction. She also looked after her foster mother’s children and grew especially close to Donna, who looked up to her. The girl wept when my mother left for Indiana University.
Married with Children
Lillian never earned a degree. My birth mother married young and had five children. They lived in a simple bungalow in Northbrook, a suburb north of Chicago. My mother was known for her great cooking and lively personality. People I talked to recalled how nice and sweet she was sober. After a few drinks, the attractive woman morphed into someone who could be belligerent and aggressive, a woman who talked a lot and would not let go of a grievance.
My mother already had four children when I came along. Her husband had every reason to believe I was another man’s child so after I was born, my mother gave me up to a couple in their 50s. Bob and Claire adopted me and never told me I was adopted. My mother and her husband eventually divorced and she raised her four kids on her own for a while. She worked as a waitress.
Lillian married again. I’m told Howard was good to his stepchildren. My mother’s oldest, Michael, was born with developmental delays. Her second child was a girl named Michelle. Her third child, Joey, did well in school and helped keep the family together. Tragically, as a teenager, he took his own life after breaking up with a girl. The death of a child is every parent’s worst nightmare and suicide adds another layer of pain. My mother was never the same after that.
She had breast cancer when her third son, Fritz, was seriously hurt in a motor vehicle accident. Divorced again, my mother took care of her injured son and herself at home. I was told near the end of her life, she and Fritz lived in a rented cottage on a lake in northern Illinois, a place where my mother felt at peace. She was about 48 when she died. Left behind was her son, who eventually died from complications related to the accident.
What I would Ask my Birth Mother
My birth mother was gone before I even knew she had existed. If I could talk to her, I would ask a lot of questions.
What would you do differently if you could re-live your life? How did you and my father meet? What did you see in him? What’s his name and what is he like? How did you feel about giving me up for adoption? How much time did we spend together? Did you hold me in your arms? Did you meet my adoptive parents?
I don’t resent her at all for giving me up. She did what she had to do and I’m sure it made perfect sense at the time. But I can’t help but think it hurt Lillian to bring me into the world only to give me up to strangers.
My one regret is never having had a chance to look into my birth mother’s dark eyes and talk to her.
