Marge loved to talk on the phone. I hated it. But I indulged her, calling almost every day for forty years. This phone call was special. It was my adoptive mother’s birthday. Marge was turning ninety-one while in hospice care in a nursing home in Polk County, Florida. I knew that this might be one of our last phone calls. It was the height of the global COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, and I felt guilty about not being able to visit her. I wouldn’t be able to say my final goodbyes and thank her in person for all that she had done for me. I just had this phone call. I spent hours planning what to say, but Marge had other ideas.Article continues after advertisement
“Tell me everything. Don’t spare any details. I don’t remember things like I used to, so pretend I don’t know anything. Don’t hold anything back,” Marge pleaded. “Tell me all about your search for your biological family. I want to know that you have family in your life before I die.”
“Where do I start? It’s so complicated,” I replied.
“Start at the beginning,” Marge demanded.
For the next two hours, I told Marge every detail.Article continues after advertisement
