I must be the busiest unemployed person ever. For some reason, I've been rushing around for about two weeks straight, and have had hardly a minute to myself. I've been trying to keep up on all my must-read blogs, but I've only managed to blog twice (this will make three times) this week!
One thing I actually did accomplish this week: I got the letter written. The letter to my birth mother - or, to the person who I believe to be my birth mother. I wrote several drafts. Okay, who am I kidding? I wrote about a hundred drafts. I don't think I've ever edited something so much in my life, but I wanted it to say just the right thing.
It had to be non-confrontational. It had to be friendly, but not too friendly. Appreciative and informative, but not creepy. Heartfelt but not maudlin. It had to give her the facts about how I came to believe she is my birth mother without calling her a liar. It had to make her want to tell me the truth.
Do I have high hopes for the letter? God help me, but yes, I do. I know there's a good chance she'll not reply. Or she may answer, only to deny it again. I guess there's an outside chance that it really isn't her, but I don't believe that.
Still, I want it to work. I want it so much it hurts. I want her to call me, or write to me, and give me the answers I've been seeking for such a long time. And, if I let myself be honest, I want her to want me in her life. Somehow. Some way. Any way.
It's a lot of pressure to put on a letter. Is it up to it? Who knows? It's out of my hands now, literally. My postal carrier picked it up around 10:30 this morning. I sat at my dining room table and watched as she took the letter out of my mailbox and tossed it into the plastic bin with all the other bills and birthday cards and no-postage-required envelopes.
Now, there's nothing to do but wait. And pray.
Grilled Asparagus and Fontina Sandwiches
21 hours ago