The Journal

I entered my room, stood for a brief moment, and basked in my room’s impeccability. I loved entering my room knowing I would not be disturbed and that my books were always waiting to take me in an escape from life during times when I needed to shut the world out and enter into new ones. I dropped the armful of books onto my bed and began to sort through my stack of library books from my research materials. While doing this, I came across a slim volume I didn't recognise with a plain, soft black cover nestled between two large ones looking greatly out of place. I couldn’t for the life of me, remember checking it out. It’s cracked spine and curled pages would not have looked appealing enough for me to consider it. I guess it must have fallen in while I was checking the books out of the library. It had happened before, but not quite by accident. In the days when I was still new to the university library, I used to intentionally yet inadvertently drop an extra novel into my book bag when I thought no one was looking. But this time I was absolutely certain I had not taken this book out on purpose.

Brimming with ravenous curiosity, I carefully removed the elastic band that held the book closed and saw a small puff of dust erupt as the book unravelled. I knew as soon as I opened it that it was no library book- it was a personal journal. People usually took their own journals wherever they went, and would occasionally be seen writing in them even while they ate. Therefore, it was not surprising for me to discover ancient coffee stains- or in this case, drips of water, maybe tears- located on the fringes. Thumbing through the yellowed pages, there was nothing to indicate whom this journal belonged to, but the beautiful and delicate handwr...

... middle of paper ...

...s preparing dinner.

“Mom?” My voice trembled. She looked up at me and smiled.

“Hello, dear. Are you hungry?”
I set the journal on the counter and slid it over to her. She looked at it for a moment and her face suddenly drained of all color.

“I read it, Mom.”
She nodded slowly and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. She stayed quiet but my heart was in my throat, my mind released all thoughts and emotions that I couldn't hold back.

“If you had a hysterectomy a year before I was born…how are you my mother?” I asked.

Tears streamed down my face as I stared at her, waiting. Mom closed her eyes and shook her head.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” she whispered.

“Miya, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m not your biological mother.” She took a deep breath and uttered the words I knew were coming, the words that changed my life forever.

“Miya, you’re adopted.”