#06 True/False Stories

It was my 6-year-old birthday. After the birthday song was sang, I handed out the sliced birthday cake to my family. When the celebration was over, my mother came up to me and said, gently, that I actually have two birthdays. I didn’t get what she meant initially, and so she explained that I was actually adopted. The birthday that I have been celebrating for the past 6 years or so, is actually the day which I had been adopted, rather than the actual day that I was born. I already knew what adoption meant when I was 6, but I just never expected myself to be adopted. There was not a single hint at all that I could be a adopted child, so it came as quite a shock initially. Nevertheless, it did not make much of a difference between the relations of me and my family. I am grateful for them for wanting to adopt me and how this decision of theirs has brought us together as a family. Sure, there are times where it had been miserable on my part, where I would wonder why my biological parents gave up on me. Was it because I was not befitting of them? But eventually as I grew older, I realize of all the different reasons people put up their child for adoption, and it no longer bother me like it used too. My family and I never talked much about my adoption details or my birth parents, but I think that was because I never asked, not because they wanted to hide anything from me. It really did not matter anyway. From the bottom of my heart, I did not care even if I were never to meet my birth parents. Of course, there is this slight element of curiosity regarding who they were and why they gave me up for adoption, but then again, if I were to meet them, what could I possibly get out of it? Nothing. Nothing would ever change. So I would say that it’s very pointless. I am contented with my parents. My parents, the ones who brought me up – they’re my real parents.

I was 8 year old when this happened. It was not much of an incident to anyone else, but it was very impactful for me. Not in a good way though. I was getting ready for school in the afternoon. Then my mother came out from her room and sat beside me. She said she had something to tell me, and that I had to understand. She went on explaining about how since my brother is the elder child, it was inevitable that she favoured him more than me. Well, that was immensely upsetting for me. To begin with, I already knew that my parents adored my brother more, but to hear my mother put it into words, confirm the truth that could no longer be denied… that was just painful. At that point of time, I just felt that it was so unfair. What did I do to garner such a fate? I was always the better child. I was way more independent, academically superior and well behaved than my brother! I still remember incidents in which I had to step up and take to the role just because my brother was too scared to do so, or whatever his reasons were for not doing what he was told to do so. He is three years older than me, but I had to be the one to order pizza for the family, or to call a cab to our place. Till this day, the favoritism is still ongoing. Not in a Cinderella versus her evil stepsisters kind of way, but far more subtle. Still, you can’t deny it. I have already given up hope that my parents will one day see that I’m much more capable than my brother. I’m tired of proving myself to be superior. Now, I just want to be the best I can, not for my parents to be proud, but for my own happiness. Selfish, you may say, but I’m not living my life for others.