This was my mom's life. As I read your words, I heard them in her voice. Her first mom and adoptive mom wrote to each other until 1916, when Amy wrote to tell Trina that she was married and missed her little girl. Trina panicked and cut off all contact. Mom found her first mom only after she died, and I can remember her sobs. I was just a little girl. When I asked what was wrong, she told me, “My mama died.” I still have the letters notifying her of Amy's death several years before. Thank you for writing what so many adoptees feel, but can't put into words. I will print and keep this article in my family history work forever. My children and grandchildren will read your words.
I feel this deep down in places I don’t care to visit anymore. I am the Outside Child. I am the One Who Almost Ruined Everything. Mine is the face of accountability. I cry for all of us, because I don’t know what else to do. Peace to you.
I wasn’t ready to casually read this while sitting in the passenger seat on the way to church. Hurts so, so deep down in that place I don’t care to visit either…
Everything I’ve ever felt about being the “outside child” you said it for me so perfectly!! Thank you Dr. P for helping to understand these emotions I’ve been experiencing throughout my life!!
Thank you for writing this, Dr. Patton. I was the product of an affair. My father was not an involved parent, but decided to step up when my only child was born. No child could have asked for a better grandfather. When COVID-19 claimed him the summer of 2020, my daughter and I were tossed out of his viewing and told that we should be ashamed of ourselves because “he never acknowledged you”. Nearly five years on, it still hurts like yesterday. Today though, your words remind me that I am not alone. Thank you again for your poignant expression.
My father, born in the 1920s, was an outside child of Black high school students from well-off families--legally adopted in infancy, then more losses. Re-orphaned in his early teens. A long, sad story.
You have explained the man who was once described by a therapist as a "warm, unavailable father."
Thank you for unleashing the gift of your writing.
This has me full on ugly crying on public transit while on my way to work. I’m I guess what we can call a borderline kid or outskirts kid. I wasn’t adopted, I was just unfamiliar or unknown to my father’s side of the family until I was 20. My grandparents and brother invited me in and then my uncle embraced me literally and figuratively.
I’ve met my father one time and I had to force him to engage me. There are no photos of us together and there likely never will be. I’ve come to accept that.
I am blessed in that my beloved Uncle Rodger didn’t just invite me to the table he made everyone scootch down and created a place…right next to him. Where I was sheltered, loved, protected and nurtured every single day from that day forward.
I lost him in February and the grief and feelings of loss are monumental.
Everything I’ve ever felt about being looked upon as an “outside child ( although I wasn’t). My father parents were never married and my papa was a rolling stone…about 10 kids total. He asked to marry my mother but she said no because my grandmother (her mother) begged her not to leave her (this is a another story for another time). Only 2 street separated where my paternal and maternal family lived. I never was around my father’s family. My paternal grandmother kept me one time and that was when my maternal grandmother passed away. I was 9 months old. After the military, my father moved to Cincinnati and started a family. Mu mother didn’t allow me to visit because my dad moved around. I have several siblings and don’t know them. Your story resonates with me! Although I knew him, I felt like a stranger at my own father's funeral. I am 54 and trying to earn a seat at my father’s family table but I feel like an outcast. I could probably write a short story. Thank you so much for sharing your story!
Dr. Patton, thank you for telling your story. I am the stepmother(?) of an adopted child fathered by my husband. Yes, it’s complicated. Our story turned out a little different—we did extend the invitation. But I’ll never fully understand all the feelings that she must have had over the years as the other child. Thank you!
Thank you Stacey. Not an adoptee and have attended a funeral as an outsider, it is Not a pleasant experience, even with other outsiders sitting beside you in the pew.
This. I shed silent tears reading this. I was/am that outside child. My father (stepfather) and mother did all they could to keep me unaware of my true origin; never was it intended to be cruel. It was to make me comfortable and to avoid the awkwardness of being the outsider. When my biological father made disingenuous attempts to get to know me it did more harm than good. I became confused and angry, always wondering why I wasn’t enough to be loved by a man who had no other children but me. Always wondered if my father really loved me or if he tolerated me because of his love for my mother. When my father passed away I was crushed, the man who raised me was gone forever. When my biological father died I felt nothing. I went to the funeral and saw my face in the casket without knowing the person who possessed it. I was in the obituary with my name spelled wrong and missing the mention of my youngest child. Not one tear was shed for a man I didn’t know. My body became rigid when his family attempted to hug me, when they asked to see pictures of my children. They were strangers, not because they wanted to be but because he made the decision to keep us as strangers.
This is how I felt at my biological grandmother’s funeral as an outside (or never claimed) child who was out-of-sight, out-of-mind - where my biological father told my three sisters that they have an older sister (me) for the first time and introduced us. We were all caught off guard and are still trying to build some type of bond 9 years later. I don’t think I will ever feel anything for him though and will likely only grieve the relationship that could have been shall he pass before me.
This is my story as well. I found out my dad died a month afterwards. Reading the obituary, hearing the service, all the memorials that lauded him and his family but I was never mentioned. Thankfully when I reached out to my eldest brother I was accepted and included from that day on. While all haven't accepted me, I am grateful for the ones that have. I wrote about my painful journey in my last book.
This is my story. I too am the outside child, and I have felt and experienced everything that you talked about. Reading this helped me to realize just how much pain I had suppressed. I am 51 years old, and it is still hurtful to know that I will never experience those familial bonds with my father’s side of the family. Thank you for writing this. It helped me to put feelings that I didn’t even realize I had into perspective.
Your ability to articulate emotions helps to clarify our thoughts and feelings on issues that we grapple with in our daily lives. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for your voice and powerful words. Your words hit in many places that resonate. You bring clarity and recognition to the world. In gratitude for you who you are and what you share.
Thanks for sharing your story, Dr. Stacey! I so love reading your writings and learning about your life experiences. This one must have been a tough one to write about.
This was my mom's life. As I read your words, I heard them in her voice. Her first mom and adoptive mom wrote to each other until 1916, when Amy wrote to tell Trina that she was married and missed her little girl. Trina panicked and cut off all contact. Mom found her first mom only after she died, and I can remember her sobs. I was just a little girl. When I asked what was wrong, she told me, “My mama died.” I still have the letters notifying her of Amy's death several years before. Thank you for writing what so many adoptees feel, but can't put into words. I will print and keep this article in my family history work forever. My children and grandchildren will read your words.
I feel this deep down in places I don’t care to visit anymore. I am the Outside Child. I am the One Who Almost Ruined Everything. Mine is the face of accountability. I cry for all of us, because I don’t know what else to do. Peace to you.
I wasn’t ready to casually read this while sitting in the passenger seat on the way to church. Hurts so, so deep down in that place I don’t care to visit either…
Everything I’ve ever felt about being the “outside child” you said it for me so perfectly!! Thank you Dr. P for helping to understand these emotions I’ve been experiencing throughout my life!!
Thank you for writing this, Dr. Patton. I was the product of an affair. My father was not an involved parent, but decided to step up when my only child was born. No child could have asked for a better grandfather. When COVID-19 claimed him the summer of 2020, my daughter and I were tossed out of his viewing and told that we should be ashamed of ourselves because “he never acknowledged you”. Nearly five years on, it still hurts like yesterday. Today though, your words remind me that I am not alone. Thank you again for your poignant expression.
Wow. Dr. P.
My father, born in the 1920s, was an outside child of Black high school students from well-off families--legally adopted in infancy, then more losses. Re-orphaned in his early teens. A long, sad story.
You have explained the man who was once described by a therapist as a "warm, unavailable father."
Thank you for unleashing the gift of your writing.
This has me full on ugly crying on public transit while on my way to work. I’m I guess what we can call a borderline kid or outskirts kid. I wasn’t adopted, I was just unfamiliar or unknown to my father’s side of the family until I was 20. My grandparents and brother invited me in and then my uncle embraced me literally and figuratively.
I’ve met my father one time and I had to force him to engage me. There are no photos of us together and there likely never will be. I’ve come to accept that.
I am blessed in that my beloved Uncle Rodger didn’t just invite me to the table he made everyone scootch down and created a place…right next to him. Where I was sheltered, loved, protected and nurtured every single day from that day forward.
I lost him in February and the grief and feelings of loss are monumental.
Everything I’ve ever felt about being looked upon as an “outside child ( although I wasn’t). My father parents were never married and my papa was a rolling stone…about 10 kids total. He asked to marry my mother but she said no because my grandmother (her mother) begged her not to leave her (this is a another story for another time). Only 2 street separated where my paternal and maternal family lived. I never was around my father’s family. My paternal grandmother kept me one time and that was when my maternal grandmother passed away. I was 9 months old. After the military, my father moved to Cincinnati and started a family. Mu mother didn’t allow me to visit because my dad moved around. I have several siblings and don’t know them. Your story resonates with me! Although I knew him, I felt like a stranger at my own father's funeral. I am 54 and trying to earn a seat at my father’s family table but I feel like an outcast. I could probably write a short story. Thank you so much for sharing your story!
Dr. Patton, thank you for telling your story. I am the stepmother(?) of an adopted child fathered by my husband. Yes, it’s complicated. Our story turned out a little different—we did extend the invitation. But I’ll never fully understand all the feelings that she must have had over the years as the other child. Thank you!
Thank you Stacey. Not an adoptee and have attended a funeral as an outsider, it is Not a pleasant experience, even with other outsiders sitting beside you in the pew.
This. I shed silent tears reading this. I was/am that outside child. My father (stepfather) and mother did all they could to keep me unaware of my true origin; never was it intended to be cruel. It was to make me comfortable and to avoid the awkwardness of being the outsider. When my biological father made disingenuous attempts to get to know me it did more harm than good. I became confused and angry, always wondering why I wasn’t enough to be loved by a man who had no other children but me. Always wondered if my father really loved me or if he tolerated me because of his love for my mother. When my father passed away I was crushed, the man who raised me was gone forever. When my biological father died I felt nothing. I went to the funeral and saw my face in the casket without knowing the person who possessed it. I was in the obituary with my name spelled wrong and missing the mention of my youngest child. Not one tear was shed for a man I didn’t know. My body became rigid when his family attempted to hug me, when they asked to see pictures of my children. They were strangers, not because they wanted to be but because he made the decision to keep us as strangers.
This is how I felt at my biological grandmother’s funeral as an outside (or never claimed) child who was out-of-sight, out-of-mind - where my biological father told my three sisters that they have an older sister (me) for the first time and introduced us. We were all caught off guard and are still trying to build some type of bond 9 years later. I don’t think I will ever feel anything for him though and will likely only grieve the relationship that could have been shall he pass before me.
This is my story as well. I found out my dad died a month afterwards. Reading the obituary, hearing the service, all the memorials that lauded him and his family but I was never mentioned. Thankfully when I reached out to my eldest brother I was accepted and included from that day on. While all haven't accepted me, I am grateful for the ones that have. I wrote about my painful journey in my last book.
This is my story. I too am the outside child, and I have felt and experienced everything that you talked about. Reading this helped me to realize just how much pain I had suppressed. I am 51 years old, and it is still hurtful to know that I will never experience those familial bonds with my father’s side of the family. Thank you for writing this. It helped me to put feelings that I didn’t even realize I had into perspective.
Your ability to articulate emotions helps to clarify our thoughts and feelings on issues that we grapple with in our daily lives. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for your voice and powerful words. Your words hit in many places that resonate. You bring clarity and recognition to the world. In gratitude for you who you are and what you share.
Thanks for sharing your story, Dr. Stacey! I so love reading your writings and learning about your life experiences. This one must have been a tough one to write about.