The truth may hurt but not knowing is worse. Then your parents die and you get a few bits of information from remaining relatives. That’s how Mother’s Day is for me. I never knew my biological mother after I was 18 months old. Her birth name was Monika Elisabeth Hartmann. My father sent me to Germany to live with my grandparents and then he got divorced. This may appear a usual story on the surface but it isn’t.
My father remarried when I was five years old. Cinderella had it easy by comparison to the next 12 years of my life. This woman took cruelty to a new level. My father told me about my mother in front of his wife when I was nine. He said my mother had psychological issues, was institutionalized (by him), and the psychiatrist thought it would be best if she worked outside of the house. There she met her next husband. He was from Jamaica. He was black. This was before the Civil Rights Movement.
My father got full custody of me and my mother could only visit me unaccompanied once a week. That never happened. I always wondered about her. Years later a close family member said my mother was probably threatened by my father. I didn’t want to believe it at the time but knowing my father that’s most likely what happened.
A few days later, his wife found wedding pictures of my mother and father and demanded I tear them up and throw them away. I couldn’t tell my father. I so badly wanted to keep a photograph but I feared her cruelty. I wasn’t allowed to ask about my biological mother any more after I was told about her.
I enlisted in the Air Force at 17. I met my husband and we had three children. When our daughter was born, I diligently pursued finding my mother. That was 1989 before all of today’s technology so it was tedious letter writing and waiting. Getting records from Germany was fairly easy because they don’t have the privacy issue. I got all her documents from birth up until she came to the United States in 1956. I even learned my biological grandmother died in 1989. Then I got stuck. I couldn’t find any more information.
At my stepmother’s memorial in 2008, my godmother, also my father’s cousin, gave me a large wedding photograph of my father and mother. She told me I should have it but not to mention it to my father. After my father died, I had the photograph professionally framed and it’s prominently displayed in my parlor. Part of me probably did that to spite my father.
About six months after my stepmother’s memorial, a family member, who knew I had been searching for my mother, called to tell me he had found her. Unfortunately that was because she was dead and those documents are public. However, he also found a telephone number for her last husband. I called. What a nice man. He told me I have a sister and brother. I also have a niece. He said my mother died at the age of 58 to breast cancer.
Due to social media, I can stay in touch with my sister and niece. I haven’t met my brother yet. I also found a cousin in Florida. According to her, my family is much larger than I can imagine. I probably have distant relatives in Jamaica. It would be a nice island to visit and meet my extended family.
My father probably believed he did the best for me. I still don’t understand why he wouldn’t give me more information. In my adult years I told him the circumstances didn’t matter to me. It was his marriage but I was a product of them both. I wanted to meet her. He never broke. He was a proud man. After my father died, I found information and it was too late. What a waste. I have put away the “if only” and “what if.” I have forgiven my stepmother, my father, and my mother. I have a lot of family out there that deserves my attention in this lifetime.
My healing journey continues. Join me. Today I’d like to wish my mother a Happy Mother’s Day. Do the same for yours.
Column by Linda R. Jones
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