To my parents, my story is a fairy tale. When I was growing up, they had all sorts of romanticized ways to frame it: it was a charming stork story, or a lucky twist of fate, or proof of guardian angels, or a tale of the department of cosmic fulfillment finally getting an order right.

There were newspaper stories, too. The clipping my dad loves most: “Safe Haven Brings Happy Ending for Texas Family.” A “happy ending” story . . . What kind of paradigm is it where a new life is an “ending”? I mean, yes, it was happy news for my parents and an incredible stroke of luck for me. But it was a beginning, not an ending. For me, it was the beginning of life as a “safe haven” baby — i.e., a throwaway.

My parents do not understand my feelings about this — my dad especially. Any efforts I ever made to express my sadness about being abandoned, my curiosity about my birth mother or my other family, have been met with anxious, tense reactions. Why would I focus on that? This is my family now, and it was meant to be, and there is no point in ruminating over unknowables. I have never known how to make them understand that wishing I knew more about my biological family does not mean I’m not grateful for the family I have, not glad for the outcome. But it’s moot, because the subject is best left alone, which means all of my guilty and fretful worries and longings reside tidily within the walls of my own heart.

But now there is another reason not to tell them how I feel about placing Jonah, and why I feel that way: if they are forced to think of this as what it is, as relinquishing their child, it will decimate them.

And since I can’t speak my truth about that, I just listen. I know the sound of my mom’s voice — I know how hard she’s trying to be enthusiastic because there is no other viable option. I also know that she’s dying inside.

I am, too.

I try to say some encouraging things before telling her I have to go or I’ll be late for class. It’s not true, but I don’t want her to hear me crack.