I'm holding one hand over my mouth and staring at what I'm holding in the other hand. In it is an old Polaroid of a woman, who's not my mother, holding me immediately after giving birth and the words "Janine's Birth Mother" written on the bottom.

How long can your eyes stay open before you need to blink? I think I just hit the record. My eyes are dryer than a KFC biscuit and, yet, I can't close them. "Janine's Birth Mom" I whisper as I reverently run my fingers over the picture. It's 16 years old but I still try to hold the Polaroid closer to my face. I want to see her nose, her eyes, her ears, her face. Can I be seen in her?

"What was that, honey?", my mom yelled. I quickly started putting everything back into the secret shoebox, the secret shoebox back into the secret panel behind my mom's shoe rack, the cover back onto the panel, her shoes back on the shelf, and I finish just in time for my mom to show up behind me.

"Did you find that scarf you were looking for?", she asked me. At least, that's what I think she asked me. I can't stop staring at her and the mirror on the wall behind her. All I hear from her are gurgles. My nose, her nose. My eyes, her eyes. My ears, her ears. My face, her face. Not my mother. Not my mom. "Did you find that scarf you were looking for?", she repeated.

"Oh!", I childishly said while slapping my left hand to my forehead. "I forgot that I left it at Kendra's house."

"Okay. Just remember to bring it home.", she said as she left the room with a basketful of dirty laundry. I stared at her as she walked away.

For 16 years, I thought my mom and dad were my mother and father. I thought they'd made me out of love for each other but instead, I was made by people who didn't want me. I was made out of passion or hatred. I wasn't wanted, I was abandoned.

It's been a week since I found out that I'm adopted. My parents have known something is up all week but they've raised me to come to them when I'm ready to talk about it. They've never forced me to open up to them and they're not doing it now. I find their resistance impressive. There's so much trauma in the history of black parenting that's been passed down through the generations since slavery, but my parents made it a goal to break generational curses. They wanted me to view them and home as a safe place. They've been strict but also understanding and forgiving. They never want me to feel like I can't come to them. So, after lugging this huge anchor of knowledge around with me all week, I've decided I can't wait anymore.

I walked into my parents' room, went to their closet, removed the necessary shoes, took off the cover to the secret panel, took the shoebox out of the secret area, and went downstairs to talk to them.

"Mom, Dad", I started.

After telling them about finding the shoebox, they looked at each other and then they both hugged me. "Oh baby", my mom said through her sniffles and tears. She kneeled down to my eye level, put her hands on my cheeks, stared me in the eyes, and continued.

"You were made in love. Your birth mother was my sister, the one I don't talk about. Less than a month after you were born, she and her boyfriend were in a car accident and they died. They were both 18 years old fresh out of high school but baby, I promise you were made in love and you were wanted. My sister wanted nothing more than to be your mother and to raise you. She wanted to watch you grow into the beautiful young woman you are today. She wanted to watch your milestones and talk to you about boys and cook you nutritious meals on a daily basis. She was a bibliophile and she was excited to share her love of books with you. The first time I saw you pick up a chapter book well ahead of your years at a grocery store, my eyes filled with tears because you get your love of reading and your intelligence from your mom. I'm sorry we never told you. We just didn't want to give you stories of them when you can't make your own memories with them. You were wanted by them and you were wanted by us."

"We love you baby", my dad said as he came around to the other side to hug me.

In a way, I still feel abandoned. Death is a type of abandonment, right? Well, I may have been abandoned, but I was loved and I was wanted and right now that's all I need.