I Keep Visiting the Cafe Where My Bio Mom Works, Though She Still Doesn’t Know I’m Her Son — My Story

I sorted things in their house, starting with important documents and accounts that needed to be settled. My plan was to move there, as their home was now mine, and I could stop wasting money on rent. However, there was one document that I never expected to find. A strange letter addressed to me was inside a box in my parent’s closet, along with some odd documents, and I had never seen these papers in my life.

Once I was back in Hartford, I realized that I didn’t want to be there anymore.

They were adoption papers. Imagine my shock. I was 36 and had just learned I was adopted by chance. My parents obviously never wanted to tell me, or they would’ve when they were alive. I mean, they didn’t make me feel like anything other than their son, but it would’ve been nice to know.

I could’ve asked them all the questions running through my mind. Alas, I couldn’t, so I had to sift through documents, trying to understand. The adoption happened in San Antonio, Texas, where we used to live.

I was now in Hartford, Connecticut, because my father got a job here many years ago, and I returned here after graduating from NYU. It was a closed adoption; apparently, my parents only ever met my birth mother, who wrote me a letter.

Inside, she explained that she was 18 and had no family, support, or anything else to offer me. Therefore, adoption seemed like the best choice. I could understand that, although I suspected my feelings on the subject would fluctuate with time. I was mostly numb, reading everything and trying to learn more.

Her name was Helena, and she wanted me to know she loved me very much.

“I’m only giving you up because I love you dearly and want you to have the best life possible. I hope this was the right decision. All my love, Mom,” I read the last words of her letter and marveled. I couldn’t believe it and felt a twinge of sadness that my parents didn’t tell me about this.

But what could I do now? I turned the piece of paper around and found her full name and her address in San Antonio. So, I could try to find her if I wanted. However, did I want that? Maybe, not. Would it hurt her to see me? Would I be hurt to see her?

I was so confused. So, I placed all the documents and the letter back in the box and continued sorting through my parents’ things. I would come back to that… issue later.

It took a few months, but I finally gave in and decided to buy a plane ticket to San Antonio. I had already found her on social media and knew precisely where she worked. She was a waitress/barista at a café.

So, I drove straight there after renting a car at the airport. I went up to the counter, but a young girl was ringing up customers. I couldn’t see anyone else. Was she off that day? I had no idea, so I asked for a coffee and a muffin, paid, and sat down at a random table.

I fiddled with my phone for a few minutes until I heard a sweet voice with a hint of a Latin accent. “Hey, there, sweets. Here’s your order,” she sing-sang, and my heart stopped when I looked up.

I recognized her immediately. We had the same eyes and nose. “Thank you,” I responded, hoping my voice didn’t tremble. She told me to enjoy myself and went back to work.

I sipped and ate my muffin, not really tasting anything. I was trying to look at her without making it obvious. I failed because she often came to the table and asked if I wanted something else. I kept ordering sweets and had like four cups of coffee that afternoon. But I finally left and stayed at a hotel.

The next day, I went back to the cafe with my laptop and worked from there. At least, that was an excellent excuse to stay there all day. I talked to her more, and at the end of her shift, I struck up a conversation, and she sat with me.

She asked about my life and work, and I responded that it was pretty dull. “Mine too, actually,” Helena said. She got married in her 30s, but her husband left when she couldn’t get pregnant, so now she was alone. But she was happy enough. She liked her job and owned a house, so that was good. I was pleased for her.

I kept coming day after day after day for two weeks straight. I learned something new about her each time, and I left feeling great. But I finally had to return home.

However, once I was back in Hartford, I realized I didn’t want to be there anymore. I missed my parents terribly. I lived alone, but I was often at their house. Now, I was untethered with no other family for support or companionship. Being around Helena centered me.

So, I put my parents’ house for sale and moved to Texas. My job was remote, so it wasn’t an issue. I could leave immediately after telling the real estate agent I trusted him to handle everything.

“My favorite client! Where have you been, Anthony?” Helena greeted me when I backed right back to that café. I smiled and sat down, ordering my usual.

“I had to arrange some things, but you’ll see me a lot from now on,” I told her, smiling cheekily.

“Good, I’ll be right back with your order,” she answered and went off to make some coffee.

My smile stayed in place as I watched her handle the machine, and I realized I would soon have to tell her the truth.

But could I do it? Should I tell her I’m the baby she gave up for adoption? What would you do?

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If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one about three siblings who lost their parents but still honored what they were taught.