What I've Learned About Unconditional Love From Meeting the Daughter I Placed for Adoption
By Tre Miller Rodriguez
Rodríguez, right, and her daughter Laurie
When my 21-year-old daughter, Laurie, proposed matching wrist tattoos two years ago, my mouth said “yes” before my brain could object. Swept into the spontaneity of the moment, I never imagined explaining our inked cherry blossoms to grocery checkers or first dates.
“This? It celebrates my bond with the daughter I placed for open adoption. We reunited a few years ago and she’s changed my life in a thousand unlikely ways…twin tats included.”
Back in 2009, Laurie had secretly located her birth certificate and Googled my name. She discovered my public Facebook profile and the grief-centric Tumblr I’d launched after my 40-year-old husband died of a sudden heart attack. She knew we’d been married three years and had no children together. Among my blog confessions, she found details of her birth and adoption: I was a pregnant high-school senior, her 20-something biological father didn’t show for any prenatal appointments, and I’d chosen her adoptive parents, who’d graciously kept in touch with me via letters and pictures.
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After stalking me online (her words!) for two years, Laurie exchanged her anonymity for a Facebook friend request. After that goose-bump moment, my intense joy was followed by fear: how would I answer the hard questions she had for me? Could I offer her any satisfying explanation for why I’d given my own child away? This anxiety was fueled by my only adoption reference point: my father, an adoptee, had reunited with his own birth mother when he was 49-years-old. He greeted her with loads of questions, and judging by the still-lukewarm state of their relationship, he was less than charmed by her answers.
Mercifully, my fear of Laurie’s fact-finding mission was misplaced. Our earliest Facebook messages were gushy and vulnerable. Her curiosity was centered on my wedding day, travels, and PR career in New York City. We devoured each new photo in each other’s digital albums, and our families began friending each other. After a few months of correspondence, Laurie and I reunited in her North Carolina hometown with the blessing of her adoptive parents.
Our reunion knocked me wide open. Nothing prepared me for the immediacy of our connection. From our voices and posture to the nearly identical décor of our teenage bedrooms, the similarities overwhelmed me. While I didn’t know what being a mom was supposed to look like, I felt a bursting-at-the-seams fullness in her presence. It became impossible to imagine a life that didn’t include her. The feeling was mutual–in a package that arrived around Mother’s Day that year, Laurie wrote a note to me that read: “I’m so grateful you’re in my life, and I can’t wait for us to have more adventures!”
I knew Laurie didn’t need another mom. What she wanted was the blueprint for her identity. In me, she found explanation for her creativity, fashion sense, and early appreciation for the beach and all things brunch. In her, I discovered a person who accepts my flaws and life choices unquestioningly–someone who shares my pursuit of the unknown, the impossible and the irreverent. The fact that this person is also my adult daughter seems like a surprise party only the universe could throw me.
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Since having Laurie back in my life, I’ve had the privilege of holding her hand through high school heartbreak and helping her move to college in Charleston. My instincts toward her are similar to those of a protective older sister, and so now that she’s 21, supporting herself, and no longer living under her adoptive parents’ roof, I place zero limits on our exchanges. Whatever she’s thinking about doing, I’ve probably smoked it, eaten it, called it an Uber, and journaled about it the next day. And so we’re able to have tactical conversations about safe sex, financial aid, designated drivers, and even how to hold your head high while doing the walk of fame. When Laurie shares how she’s implemented my advice, I feel giddy and relevant. When she chooses to learn her lessons the rougher, empirical way, I bite back disappointment and focus discussion on how she can get back on track.
Their matching wrist tattoos
I’m acutely aware of how fortunate I am to have a meaningful role in her life. It’s not a traditional relationship, yet our acceptance of this fact means we don’t pressure each other to fit in neat, family-tree boxes. We’re embracing an alternate version, the sort that’s captured in the twin branches of cherry blossoms tattooed on our wrists.
Tré Miller Rodríguez is an author and Tumblr-er in New York City. She writes about fashion, grief and adoption, and overshares on Twitter.
(Photos: Courtesy of subject)
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