I gave birth to a son on January 11, 1984. Seven days later, I watched him leave in someone else’s arms.
When I first learned I was pregnant, I was unprepared but hopeful. That hope quickly
unraveled when my mother informed me that my boyfriend didn’t want to be a parent. He and I had talked about marriage before the pregnancy, so the news felt like the ground had fallen out from under me. He had called her directly to say he wasn’t ready. In that moment, everything became a blur. My ears rang, I felt dizzy, and a deep sense of panic set in.
At the same time, my parents were going through a difficult divorce. When my mother told my father about my pregnancy, he called and offered to pay for an abortion. I told him that was not an option for me. He hung up, and we didn’t speak again for nearly three years.
I initially planned to parent my baby, despite everything going on with me and my family. I knew it would be challenging, but I believed I could find a way. I was an adult, capable of working, saving, and building a life for both of us. My mother, however, strongly opposed this decision. She insisted it would be a mistake and said she was too old to help raise another child, especially with my developmentally disabled sister still living at home. I told her I wasn’t asking for help, but she remained firm. After months of emotional back-and-forth, I gave in.
My mother found a Christian adoption organization near our home called Sunny Ridge Family Center. It housed “unwed mothers” and “troubled boys,” (interesting combination, I know!) though the two groups were kept entirely separate. I did not live there, but attended some of the counseling sessions. I often felt like I didn’t quite belong since I was older than most of the girls.
The director, Arlene Betts, treated me with kindness and compassion. She guided me through the process, including the painful reality of signing away my parental rights. At that time, “open” adoptions did not exist except through expensive lawyers. At Sunny Ridge, I could select the adoptive family, but I would know very little about them. I did learn that my son would have an older brother. I liked that. I was provided with the typical healthcare: monthly appointments, etc. I had a routine pregnancy, nothing out of the ordinary. Until I went into labor.
We arrived at the hospital around midnight. As my labor progressed, it was all back labor. My poor mother rubbed my back with her knuckles for hours. When labor hadn’t progressed enough, the nurse checked, and I was not fully dilated. 23 hours after entering the hospital, I underwent an emergency C-section. At 11:33 pm, Joshua David came into the world at 9 pounds and 13 ounces and 21 inches long.
I remained in the hospital for seven days, a gift that allowed me precious time with him. I held him, studied his face, held him close, and tried to memorize every detail. Those moments were both beautiful and heartbreaking. They softened what I knew was coming, but they could not take the pain away. The hospital treated my mother and me to a steak dinner with wine! It was something they did for every new set of parents. It was a nice time to spend with my mom. The day I left the hospital is one I will never forget. I watched as he was carried out the door, and it felt as though a part of me went with him. I cried the entire way home.
In the years that followed, not a January 11 passed without me thinking of him. I wondered what he looked like, what made him laugh, how he fit into his family. Life moved forward. I married, had children, and built a life, but the space he left was always there.
I was open with my first husband about Joshua, and he supported me through the difficult
moments. Later, when my sons were old enough, I told them about their older brother and the
possibility that one day he might find me. My second husband has also been a steady source of
support and understanding.
Then, nearly four decades later, everything changed.
On August 23, 2023, I received an email from 23andMe saying I had a message from a relative. When I logged in and saw the match, time seemed to stop. There he was—my son. After almost 40 years, I was seeing him for the first time. My heart raced, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I think I did both. This was a day that I thought would never happen.
I sat with the news to myself for a full day before sharing it with my husband, who was
overjoyed for me.
I sent Joshua (now named Matt) an email stating that if his birthday was 1/11 and he was born
in Winfield, IL, that I *might* be his birth mother. I didn’t want to appear overzealous. Of course, the DNA information said that he was my son.
What followed unfolded gently and beautifully. We began with emails, then texts, and
eventually FaceTime calls. Conversations that might have taken a lifetime to imagine became part of everyday life. I also shared information about his birth father, and they have since
formed their own connection.
Today, I know my son, not just as a memory, but as a man. I have met his wonderful wife, who
graciously helped plan a surprise visit so we could meet in person. The moment he saw me
standing there is one I will carry with me forever.
I also have two beautiful grandchildren who are funny, warm, and full of life. Seeing them, even
through a screen, fills me with a kind of joy I once thought I had lost forever.
The story did not end in 1984. It simply paused. Now, we are writing the rest together. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
