As some of you know, my real mother gave my to my father when I was three months old. I never spoke to her, as when I was old enough to finally get up the courage to ask about her, she had already died.

For the majority of my life, I lived with this resentment in me, almost hatred towards her. I could never understand why someone would give up their child if they loved them. After I became a mother, that resentment became loathing.

Today I received a Christmas card. My sister found it when she was looking through some of our moms things. My mother wrote it to me when I was two years old. The envelope was addressed, and even had a stamp on it. However she never mailed it.

In that card was her words, her handwriting, her feelings. I opened it at the post office, and had to sit there while I cried, pouring over it, trying to grasp at every little clue as to why she walked out. There are no answers in it, but it did heal my heart a little today.

I went to my dads, I had to show him, and ask again what happened that day that she left. He read it, and as tears came down his cheeks, he said, Tara I did not know. I would have taken you to see her, if I had known she wanted to see you.

See as far as I know, she never called, she never wrote, she never did anything, other than kiss my forehead goodbye as she told my dad that he could have me and she would keep the other two. Then she left. That is pretty much the same story I have heard my whole life.

I cried, I balled, I got all snotty, and I suspect I will again later today when I take it out once more before putting it away for good. I needed this. I needed to know that my real mother loved me. As much as I needed it now, I needed it 27 years ago more.

*sigh*