switched at birth

When  I was a little girl, I often wondered if I belonged to my parents.  Not that I didn’t love them.  I adored them.  I just didn’t ever feel like I looked like them or acted like them.

Where I was the diplomatic, quiet one–my parents were passionate, blunt, and too honest.  (Except when it came to their secrets–which were many).  I was this pale blonde girl with freckles and a half-moon smile.  My mother was olive-complected with brown hair and bright, blue eyes.  My father–well, I can’t remember what his eye color was–but I never thought he looked like me.  He was graceful and witty where I was awkward and mute.

And there were stories about how I looked just like this other baby and how they actually mixed me up.  Stories about how my father might not be my father.

But then, I saw photos of my father when he was 22.  I saw my namesake grandmother and recognized my cheekbones.  I saw my half-sister and found myself wondering if that was me.  And sometimes, I will see my mother’s face in my face–usually when I’m worried or too serious.  That look that is lost and trying to find the way back home.

And some days–days like today–I’ll get more reminders.

Because I did some errands over my lunch break.  And now I want to do nothing.  And it made me laugh because it was so much my mother.  I used to tease her about how exhausted she’d get if she did even one thing outside of her routine.  And now, here I am–being my mother.

It’s odd how comforting that feels.  And how much knowing that will help me get through the weekend…which is always hard for me.  Mostly because there is no doubt I’m hers.

 

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