Never Say Never

Reunited after forty-seven years.

I love it when something happens that you never thought would happen. When you realize never to say never.

On the evening of May 19, 2022, I’d been in my art studio frustrated as I searched for a piece of fabric I couldn’t find.

I could not stop thinking about where I had put that fabric. Couldn’t stop thinking about trying to find something I could not find. Searching for something lost to me.

It was a reminder of how I’d often looked for people from my past. Children my parents had taken in. Kids that had become a part of our family, then disappeared from our lives, like it wasn’t supposed to matter.

But it did matter, and feeling that loss became a big part of my childhood.

A couple hours later, in bed, tired from reading, tired of trying to remember where I’d put that piece of fabric, I checked my email before going to sleep and saw an unfamiliar name, along with the opening line: “Barbara — I found you on Ancestry.”

Unable to remember my password to sign into my Ancestry account on my iPad, I checked Facebook in case this person had also left a message there.

I discovered several notifications and likes on pictures of my childhood home, on my artist/author page.

Along with another message: “Barbara — I Found You!!!! (Have you figured out who I am yet?)”

OMG! Of course, I knew who she was! A little girl lost to me for 47 years.

There was so much to learn. It was so emotional. Such joy to have reconnected.

We messaged back and forth until 3:27 a.m.

I went to sleep that night with the thought of how the universe sometimes gives us just what we need. Divine timing. The right set of circumstances all coming together like a magic spell.

I had only signed up to Ancestry six months previous. She wouldn’t have found me if I hadn’t been on Ancestry. My last name changed when I got married. But I’ve made my family tree public, and once you find my parents, it leads straight to me.

Over the years, I’d often looked at pictures of her and her brother. Never sure if the story I’d overheard my mother say was true. Often, my mother could exaggerate. Or rumours turned out to be untrue.

Were they given up for adoption by their father like my mother said? Their names changed? Would our paths ever cross again?

I hated getting attached and losing the ones I loved.

My parents offered an affordable place. A home in the country. My mother seemed like a superhero.

Sometimes kids stayed for months, even years. Three cousins lived with my family until they were young adults.

Some kids came when a family was going through a rough patch. Separation. Divorce. A woman having another baby and needing someone to care for the ones she already had. Their fathers unable to lose work to care for their children.

As the years went on, and I grew older, I learned it was easier to distance myself in order to ease that pain of loss. That plan was often easier said than done.

These two children had stayed with my family on and off, for years. Their leaving left a large hole in my heart.

Once the internet came into existence, I searched for their childhood names, always coming up with nothing. It seemed hopeless.

I wrote about these two children in my first memoir, Floating in Saltwater. Two children out there, somewhere. Wondering how their life had turned out. If they were alive or dead. If they even remembered living in our house.

I had photos of them, but I was unclear about the years they had lived with us. The time frame was vague to me.

My time frame ended up off by years. I was sixteen instead of thirteen when they left for good. Older than I remembered.

She and I shared memories from the time she lived with my family. Some of her memories were of things I didn’t remember, such as our German Shepherd being deaf. This would be a daily occurrence for me. For her, so young and tiny, she had feared that large dog. It left a lasting impression on her.

When she told me she was going to read my memoir, I was nervous about what I’d written. What if she didn’t remember the abuse I’d witnessed and wrote about? What if my memories hurt her? What if it brought up memories best left forgotten? These were questions I’d not had to consider before. I never believed we’d ever reconnect, much less have her read my books.

My concerns were in vain. Our family home had not been the only abusive place in her childhood. But at least the family who adopted them were much better.

As for that lost piece of fabric. I still haven’t found it. Instead, I have something of much greater value. Along with the added twist that with all my searching, she was the one who ended up finding me.

So, never say never, for it may very well someday happen, just when you least expect it.

BARBARA CARTER is a visual artist and writer with a focus on healing from childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, and living her best authentic life. She likes to take walks, read, watch TV dramas, and practice Qi-gong, and work on her memoir series BARBARA By The BAY.