The Three Runaways

Prologue

Someone who I believed to be my buddy once asked me who my real mother was. The question came out of the blue, the first time I took him to my place.

The last, too.

At the time, I just changed the subject, pretending I didn't hear. Grateful that the woman who raised me wasn't around to deal with it.

Looking back, I regret my avoidance. I should have been front with him, and said, "Look. This woman has been Mom since I was a little boy. As far as I'm concerned, she is my real mother."

But we all know hindsight is 20/20.

I mean, don't get me wrong, It's not like I hadn't wondered myself. Who was it that carried me in her womb? What traits did I get from her, physical and not, if any? These questions were normal, to be expected, honestly. It was obvious that the woman I called Mom, a person of a different ethnicity, did not birth me. Her skin was as dark as mine was pale, and while her eyes were also brown, they were several shades darker than mine.

But as the winds and years flew by, my curiosity subsided. I started to realize something. When I got a good grade on a test, I went right to the arms of my stepmother. When I was hurt, I asked her for a hug. She was the one who I went to for advice about girls and boys, the one who supported me through anything. When Mother's Day passed, she was who I celebrated, and I stopped giving the egg donor thoughts.

That's right. The egg donor. That is what I call my biological mother, for that is all she will ever be to me.

I've heard the story. I know how she didn't pick me. She's out there living her life and she chose to keep me out of it.

I respected that.

I was not angry with her, an attitude I adopted after therapy, growth, and many passing years.

Her leaving me behind turned out to be a good thing, because it made room for my real mom to step in and love me. If she had stayed here in body, but was never quite there emotionally, she would have caused me harm and kept me from the one who actually wanted me. That's what my therapist said when I first opened up about my abandonment issues, and after awhile, I started to see the logic in his words.

So, in a way, I almost learned to be grateful. With the help of Dr. Long, curiosity was eventually replaced with a gratitude of sorts. If I ever had a chance to be introduced, I would most likely thank the egg donor for leaving me, for choosing the other.

All I hoped was that the one she did chose was being taken care of. And maybe one day we could meet, with the egg donor far, far away.

Maybe. I'd lived without the other for so long now, I don't think I could use any more love in my life. I had a father and a mother, a little sister, and a crazy little dog.

And, frankly, that was all this boy needed.