artificial insemination syringe
The Guatemalan investigator I hired to locate my daughter’s birth mother, Maria, suggested we meet in Antigua, a popular spot known for its picturesque views. “In San Pedro where Maria lives, they don’t often see many foreigners,” he explained, alluding to myself as the white adoptive mother. “It’s better to meet in a more familiar place.”
Our first reunion took place when Mia was seven years old. Many of the photos I took during that day turned out blurry, my tears shaking the camera. Watching Mia and Maria embrace, clinging to each other as if they were afraid of being separated again, left me trembling.
Their dark hair and warm skin, their slender forms and graceful hands, their serene presence that I had never seen in anyone else: Meeting Maria erased any doubts I had about the powerful bond of blood. Mia seemed to resonate with that connection too, gazing into Maria’s face as if she were seeing herself for the first time.
Since that day, Mia and I have traveled to meet Maria every summer, spending precious time in Antigua alongside Mia’s half-siblings, Sofia and Mateo, and her grandmother, Abuela. Like many adoptive parents, I genuinely believe these reunions are essential for a child to feel complete, addressing the questions of “Who am I? Where do I come from? Is there anyone who resembles me?”
Our routine remains unchanged. We wait at Antigua’s lone gas station for the chicken bus coming from the mountains. Maria steps off the bus in her colorful traditional dress, and immediately Mia is in her arms. Soon after, Sofia and Mateo follow, and the hugs continue. Finally, Abuela joins the group, completing our joyful reunion.
Afterward, we share a meal at a local restaurant. While Mia and her siblings play games and draw pictures, Maria and I flip through the latest family photo album. The family speaks K’iche as well as Spanish, and while Mia’s and my Spanish is improving, we find a way to communicate.
Maria kept her pregnancy a secret. As a widow in her mid-thirties and deeply religious, she welcomed Mia into the world at a clinic far away in a town where she worked. In villages like San Pedro, women who place their children for adoption can face harsh judgment. The day the investigator visited Maria with my letter was the day her other children learned about Mia. To protect the family, she made them promise to keep it confidential. Since our initial meeting, they have embraced Mia as one of their own, accepting her as a full sister.
One Tuesday in July, when Mia was thirteen, Maria arrived in Antigua by chicken bus, but instead of stepping down with Sofia and Abuela, she emerged from the bus’s back door alone. “Today, we’ll meet at my home in San Pedro. Sofia’s baby is too small to travel, and Abuela is getting older,” she explained.
Knowing Maria had kept her pregnancy hidden, I was taken aback and felt a surge of nervousness. Our travels in Guatemala had kept us on the tourist path, and San Pedro was too small to appear on a map. Yet, I felt immensely honored by the invitation. “What do you think?” I asked Mia. Within half an hour, we hopped on the next bus back.
After one chicken bus, a micro-van, and a steep hike, we arrived at the gate of Maria’s adobe home. The roof was made of corrugated metal, and wood smoke wafted from the chimney. Clothes swayed on a line, while rows of vibrant corn stood tall nearby. The sounds of clucking chickens filled the air. A single tap provided the family’s only water. As we walked into the yard, a barking dog raced around to greet us. “What’s your dog’s name?” Mia asked, laughing when Maria replied, “Bob.”
The house had a door but no windows and held the scent of wood smoke and corn. In the kitchen, two pictures adorned the wall: one of Pope John Paul II blessing, and the other featuring Mia, Maria, and Abuela, hand in hand.
Mia and I sat on plastic stools at a small wooden table while Maria served a lunch of fried chicken and squash. The corn tortillas were freshly made that morning from Maria’s harvest, and the Coca-Cola was a special treat for the occasion. Abuela gifted Mia a necklace made from rosary beads, and Sofia allowed Mia to hold her new baby. Tears welled in my eyes as I witnessed the interaction of four generations of Mia’s family. We had closed a circle and expanded it.
After lunch, Maria dashed outside. Moments later, a hundred firecrackers exploded, loud enough for everyone in San Pedro to hear. Maria’s daughter Mia had come home.