New beginnings p2

The essay -update

As I child of adoption, I have found that it feels like living in two separate worlds that rarely mix, except within my thoughts. It is hard to say which side is better because both have come together to shape the complicated web of who I am, where I belong, and my journey of self-discovery. There's a common, but an inaccurate belief that adoption is always ideal because it places children into better families. This suggests that adoptees should constantly feel grateful to everyone involved. Thanksgiving, a holiday focused primarily on thankfulness and family allowed me to contemplate my gratitude concerning my birth parents. Whom I refer to as Miguel and Tiffany instead of Mom and Dad because of a lack of closeness in our relationship. While Thanksgiving was not our first visitation, the casualness of the event mimicked our first interaction.
Thanksgiving marked our first celebration as a family. I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety at the thought of preparing the turkey with my birth mother, considering our limited cooking skills. I anticipated that one or both of us might end up sick. After I parked, I sat in my car for several minutes before gaining the courage to knock on the slightly ajar door.
Upon entering the condo I noticed Tiffany busy in the kitchen. Taking a look around, the living space hinted at a certain disorder, with belongings haphazardly strewn around. They had found new homes on various surfaces, corners of the room, and on the "dining" table. It was clear that the space had not been tidied or organized in a while. It brought back memories of times when my mother would see my messy room and insist I clean up regularly, her disapproving expression conveying her dissatisfaction.
Tiffany motioned for me to join her, and I saw Gordon Ramsey on the TV as she attempted to replicate his recipe. It struck me how familiar this scene felt, considering my struggles with cooking, often resorting to YouTube recipes. Tiffany informed me that my grandma (Susan) would be arriving soon, as I awkwardly buttered up the chicken and shivered at its slimy texture. She appeared to easily navigate the apparent disorder of the kitchen. There were plates stacked around the sink and barely any open counter space. I fought with the growing urge to declutter and rearrange things neatly. Unlike in my parents' house, I did not feel a sense of claim over the space. Consequently, I hesitated to touch their belongings or tidy up.
Being in her presence brought a sense of unease because despite our shared blood there was a sense of forced politeness. There was an unspoken distance between us. Our carefully navigated conversation intentionally avoided deeper topics such as the adoption or any hint of lingering resentment. This conscious effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy led to a certain stiffness. Any gesture of affection also seemingly lacked the genuine warmth that should have accompanied our familial roles as mother, father, and daughter. I had a yearning for a deeper connection, to know them in the sense I knew my parents. So the gap between being family on paper and the emotional distance in the actual relationship might feel smaller.
Upon my grandmother's arrival, I received a hug and an "I missed you." I assisted her in bringing in numerous bags of food and belongings. Once settled, I observed her offering guidance to Tiffany in a typical motherly fashion, a simple interaction that reminded me of moments with my own mother. Experiencing it firsthand felt different from the imagined picture I had of their interactions.
Miguel, who had been hiding in the room, finally emerged, seemingly in a grumpy mood, claiming Tiff had made him sick. I noticed his long hair had been replaced by a short, military-style cut, but I refrained from commenting. I found myself trying to identify similarities between us, perhaps a preference for solitude and a reluctance to fill silences with unnecessary conversation. I felt slightly embarrassed watching him mope on the couch playing Nintendo, like a child throwing a tantrum. Tiffany encouraged me to join him. I declined, preferring to spend Thanksgiving away from screens, and suggested we eat together at the table. I cleared off the heavily cluttered table which appeared to not get much use.
I sat there with Susan and we took a few photos. As I prepared to send the photos, I embarrassingly admitted to deleting my grandmother's number, prompting jokes about my repeated unresponsiveness to texts. I felt guilty, recalling the countless times I had blocked Tiffany. Any attempt she made to get to know me now, I pushed her away. I felt angry because of something that happened 21 years ago when she was 15. Her giving me up, in my opinion, meant she was forfeiting her relationship with me. I felt angry she was so nonchalant about it and seemingly wanted to move on with life without directly talking about it. I suppose the noncon-frontal approach must have been genetic because I have never brought it up either. Never to her. Though my past partners had seen my tears and heard my curses.
The small table we opted to eat at was a stark contrast to the elaborate setup and family traditions at my parents' house. My mother had cabinets for all her fancy dishes and insisted on bringing out certain colored plates for certain seasons. For Thanksgiving, she pulled out her fine china with turkeys and autumn leaves decorating them. She would dim the lights, so our dinner could be candlelit. Always before we ate, my parents would say grace and we would go around the table saying one thing we are grateful for.
Surprisingly, Miguel joined us for dinner and Tiffany, trying again to encourage dialogue between us, asked what I thought of his hair. I mumbled it looked good and returned to eating with the plastic fork and knife I had been given to cut the overly large slice of turkey. As Miguel stepped away to get something I finally asked Tiffany why he had cut his long ponytail. She said I should ask him. When he came back, I did not, so she asked him to tell me. I tuned out his answer.
After our meal, I yielded to the couch. Miguel, claiming fatigue, retreated to the bedroom for a nap. After watching a few shows, Susan left, and Miguel returned to play more games. As I contemplated leaving, I recalled my mother's voice, nagging me to help with cleanup. Anticipating their refusal, I quietly wandered to the kitchen and started washing dishes. Tiffany caught on and helped pack a to-go bag. Observing her catering to Miguel's needs, I briefly contemplated the dynamics of their relationship, hoping never to have a partner like that. My parents had set a higher standard, usually taking turns cooking and offering to clean up for each other. Their acts of service towards each other were never tainted by resentment or could be perceived as begrudging. They genuinely seemed to enjoy uplifting the other which, I noticed, this relationship lacked.
Upon reflection, it is difficult to deny my contradictory feelings towards my biological parents. Despite being in their late thirties they have maintained their youthful mindsets and immaturity. I cringe to think that at that age someone might perceive me that way. Even now, The thought of depending on someone to take care of me makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps it is a symptom of the adoption. The narrative of gratefulness towards my birthparents I feel is there, but also clouded by a sense of resentment. It overlooks the genuine emotions and the complex reality adoptees face, making it harder for us to express our true feelings. Balancing two identities without feeling fully connected to either is challenging. It is a struggle that often goes unnoticed by the outside world, which may find it difficult to relate. This dichotomy left me navigating my own path, trying to make sense of my unique journey without the simple comfort of fitting neatly into a single narrative. However, in the theme of thanksgiving and gratitude, I am grateful for the awareness and sensitivity towards others that this has given me.