Finding Love Beyond The Womb That Housed Me

Did you know I didn’t carry you in my belly?

It was November 2016.

A time I’ll never forget.

The interview with the two social workers felt like stepping into another dimension.

This meeting marked the first significant milestone in my personal quest to unravel the enigma of my own adoption. So, there I was, sitting across from them, feeling a blend of curiosity and trepidation.

I opened my folder, and there it was, file number and all — the name Leticia Ines Vidal Ocampo, handwritten in ink. A name I had never encountered before, but one that had once defined me for a fleeting 16 days, my original identity.

But, where did these names come from?

I soon discovered that Ocampo belonged to my birth mother’s family, while Vidal had been plucked randomly from a pool of family names, like a surname drawn in a cosmic lottery.

The origins of Leticia and Ines remained shrouded in mystery.

The file held many of the answers I had been yearning for, but it was not without its gaps.

As I pored over the documents, I realized that every piece of information held a stake in the ambitious endeavor to ‘determine my fate’.

The weight of that notion hung heavily in the air — who would be my family? Where would I grow up?

Leticia Ines Vidal Ocampo came into the world on March 31, 1985, but legally, she ceased to exist after a mere 16 days. In her place, a new identity was born that day, legally binding and forever altering the course of my life — the day my adoption became official.

The day I finally discovered Leticia Ines I was able to trace an unbroken timeline of my life. There were no gaps, no dotted lines, only one continuous narrative.

All I needed to do was integrate this new (or should I say old) identity into my ongoing story.

Time and time again, people describe adoption as a ‘fresh start’.

Yet, for the adopted child, it isn’t a new beginning; it’s a continuation. Our story already began, and it continues to unfold. Trying to erase words on paper leaves indelible marks. Trying to write anew would only complicate the narrative.

We’re not discarding a story; we’re building upon an ongoing one. Life is a perpetual work in progress, and we must embrace that.

Our existence before adoption is not disposable; it’s an integral and, if we allow it to, enriching part of the person we’re becoming.

Two convergent stories

Two parallel tales converged in that moment — mine and my parents’.

They had been 43 when they adopted me, their journey marked by years of trying to conceive, an emotional rollercoaster filled with confusion, paperwork, and interviews with social workers. Months of deafening silence punctuated by self-doubt about their fitness for parenthood.

Anyone who’s walked that path knows the torment.

Unbeknownst to us, my parents and I had been preparing for the day when our lives would intersect.

I often reflect on how the slightest of differences could have steered our lives in entirely different directions. A missed phone call, a delayed appointment, a piece of lost paperwork — any of these could have changed everything for them, for me.

But fate, as it turned out, is a tenacious force. And there I was, waiting for them in the nursery with a huge smile when they arrived to meet their future child.

Another belly

I could entertain you with sweet tales of my early days with my parents, but that would make this story far too boring and lengthy.

So, in brief: Dad boasted that I spoke early, while Mom lamented that I was too lazy to walk (her back bore the brunt of it).

But I feel compelled to tell you about ‘the other belly’.

“Did you know I didn’t carry you in my belly?”, Mom said.

Silence…

…more silence.

“Then how was I born?”, I asked, naturally.

“Another woman carried you in her belly, but she couldn’t keep you because she was sick. We chose you and your brother to start our family”, Mom reassured me.

I was seven.

Mom and I were doing the dishes together.

This moment is firmly embedded in my memory. I can’t recall how the rest of the conversation unfolded, only snippets remain. I remember asking Mom if she knew the woman who had carried me in her belly.

I inquired about my brother too. It turned out he wasn’t my biological sibling.

At seven, I believed children came from their mom’s womb, so I struggled to comprehend why this wasn’t my case. Eventually, the concept clicked, and the beauty of it was that I had an entire lifetime to process it.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

At seven, that was all I needed to know and all I could truly grasp. Anything more might have overwhelmed me, and Mom knew it.

By then, my brother was five.

I can’t recall whether I ever told him about being adopted, unlike the time I revealed that Santa and the Wise Men were Mom and Dad. Explaining adoption to a five-year-old didn’t seem as straightforward as revealing that camels never grazed on grass or sipped water.

I know that feeling all too well

From a young age, I knew my parents would always be there for me, even though a lurking fear of losing them always lingered.

Perhaps this fear is an innate human condition.

A few years ago, my dad shared a peculiar anecdote with me.

When they were getting ready for their first trip after my arrival, they dropped me off at a friend’s house who would care for me while they were away.

After kissing me goodbye, they were ready to leave, but I stood by the door and declared, “This is child abandonment”. I was only three at the time. Today, we all share a hearty laugh about it, but needless to say, I probably put a damper on my parents’ vacation back then.

At three, I had no idea I was adopted.

When I say ‘I had no idea’, I mean that no one had told me yet. Nonetheless, I was already haunted by the fear of being left behind.

Could I recognize that fear?

Had I felt it before?

I can’t say for certain.

No child, adopted or not, enjoys being apart from their mom and dad. But maybe there was something else.

This anecdote makes me think about how much we unknowingly know.

Oh, the things I left behind

Like many adoptees, attachment has always been a bit of a challenge for me.

When we moved away from the house I had grown up in, I felt an overwhelming sadness. I cling to places I hold dear, memories I cherish, and people I love.

Paradoxically, I can also be fiercely — and I would say, pathologically — independent and distant at times.

Now, at the age of 38, I remain unmarried and childless, living alone with my loyal companion, Leon, my dog.

I’ve embraced a life of solitude, much like the quaint, isolated world of the Little Prince. Reserved by nature, I often find solace in my own company.

But I’ll tell you more about my world. I find profound joy in life’s smallest details and the simple, ordinary moments. And I never underestimate the power of a heartfelt laugh.

As for solitude…

…well, solitude is my only addiction, and I crave it when I feel I’m not having enough of it.

Has adoption molded me like that?

Possibly.

Every single event in our life shapes us. So, I’ll never know for sure, and truth is, I don’t care too much.

I enjoy my introspective and introvert approach to life.

Still, I’m fully committed to improving myself and keeping it real. To do shadow work. To dissolve blocks. To write about it. Every single day, by the time I hit the hay, I’m a bit freer. A step closer to me…

…to María Marmo…

…to Leticia Inés.

*This is a true story. Thanks for reading! I’ll be publishing further chapters.