The Unwelcomed Child Read Online Free PDF Page A

born and never since. For me, he was almost a fictional character. Years later, my mother would describe the terrible crush she had on her uncle when she was younger and how much she looked forward to seeing him whenever he was able to visit.
    Grandmother Myra disapproved of her liking him so much.
    “He’s a philanderer,” she told my mother. “A womanizer, selfish, venal, and, like all those musicians, into drugs, I’m sure.”
    My mother said they had terrible arguments about him. “It was one of the few times I can remember that my father came to my aid, but no matter, she was never hospitable to Uncle Brett. I’m sure that was why he saw us so infrequently. I know that was why he gave up visiting, even calling them.”
    She said she had always kept up a correspondence with him, and later, he came to her aid. He often sent her postcards from places where he played, and occasionally, he sent her some small gift, a doll, a trinket, inexpensive jewelry, even a watch. My grandmother told me she had thrown out whatever my mother had left in the house when she ran off, so I never saw any of it.
    Sometimes I felt I was putting together my background, whatever family I would claim, like someone doing a big puzzle, finding a piece here and there. It was far from complete. There were deep gaps, but I had confidence that someday I would fill them. The real issue was, would I be happy I had?
    With all this heaviness on my shoulders, I carried out the daily chores I was assigned, completed my homeschool reading and math, and sat gazing out windows, focusing on far horizons. I was like some Old World explorer just waiting for permission and financing to set out on his journey, his eyes focused on the future.
    The possibility of his discoveries kept his heart beating, his body strong.
    Maybe I would find nothing special, but I could never be disappointed, because the journey was what I craved. One day, I would simply open the door and take my first step forward. All the steps to follow were already out there, waiting for me to fill them.
    In the end, I would plant my flag in the soil of my own identity, wouldn’t I?
    I would look into those forbidden mirrors, and I would see who I was.
    “Hi,” my reflected image would say. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

2

    My grandmother wasn’t going to celebrate my fifteenth birthday at all differently from any of my previous birthdays. There were never any presents and never any cake and candles. For years, I didn’t even know when my birthday was. Eventually, the day, June 25, was acknowledged reluctantly, almost as a passing thought. Until then, my grandmother simply announced that I was eight or nine, whatever, dropping the fact in the middle of some sentence such as, “You should know better for a six-year-old.”
    I never had any doubts that she viewed it as a day of infamy as bad as December 7 or September 11. My birthing was like a bomb dropped on their otherwise happy home, not that I could imagine it ever being a house of much happiness. All I knew during those years was that my mother regretted my birth and deserted both me and my grandparents, and they never really wanted me and the responsibility for me. I supposed I should be grateful that eventually they began to see me differently, differently enough by the time I reached my fifteenth birthday that my grandfather that morning after breakfast talked her into celebrating it.
    “She’s been a very good girl, Myra. It’s good to make people aware of what awaits them when and if they favor Satan and sin, but there is also a time to reward,” he said. “She is doing well with her school-work, she keeps her room as clean as she can, and she says her prayers regularly. All of this also means you’ve done a very good job with her. You can take a deep breath and rejoice.”
    My grandmother thought a moment and nodded. “We can take her to dinner,” she said.
    My eyes popped open. Take me to dinner? I