Angie

Standardising different

"Mommy?" I whisper, "can I tell Rebecca I grew in your tummy?". My mother looks down at me, her smile gentle but hiding her sadness, "no sweetheart". I stare back at her in confusion and puzzled I ask, "but why? Becca says she grew in her moms tummy. Why can't I tell her I did too?". I knew it would be a lie if I told the other six year old girl I was the same as her. I knew I wasn't the same. My parents always talked to me about it, for as long as I can remember they would say "you are our daughter and nothing can change that, but we didn't give birth to you". I wanted to be the same as the other children. But even at six years of age, I couldn't lie. So I would just simply remain silent whenever Becca spoke about her mother. I couldn't bring myself to sound like the odd one out. It wasn't until years later, when the silence was deafening, that I brought myself to speak the truth.

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My parents had always been open with me about being adopted. I don't remember how they told me because I've always just known. To be fair, if you met me while I was with my parents, you would just say I look like my dad. But when I'm alone with mom, it's impossible to miss. My dark features contrast her pale ones so starkly that if you don't question it, I'd be slightly worried. Mom (her name is Orla) has a golden shoulder length haircut with blonde highlights (even though she would never admit that she gets her hair brightened). Her skin is as pale as the whitest snowman to ever exist in the history of snowmen, which is something she has always detested. I personally think she should buy shares in a tanning company because she uses it so much. She might as well be making a profit off of her pale skin.

Needless to say, I am neither blonde nor a ghost. I have the longest dark brown hair in my town and chocolate brown skin that becomes 90% dark chocolate in the sun. My dad, whose name is John, is similar to me. So you can understand how we'd get away with saying we're genetically related to people that don't know us.

We live in a country called Ireland. (You may find it interesting to know that an American girl once told me that she thought Ireland was somewhere in England.... hence why I'm specifically saying a 'country called Ireland'). We live on the outskirts of the city so we're half country, half city folk. Which essentially means that it wouldn't be strange to see farm animals 2 minutes away from our garden, but it's also very easy to get to a shopping mall. I'm Irish. I have an Irish passport. I speak Irish (yes, it's a language) and I grew up in Ireland. But for some annoying reason, people love to point out that I wasn't born here. But we'll get to that later.

For now - all you need to know, is that my life is normal.

Because that's exactly what I want you to think.