When the teacher had my parents try to explain what being "adopted" meant, I still couldn't understand why I couldn't be Irish. If Da said he was Irish, than I was Irish too. It didn't matter where I came from. At least it didn't matter until I became convinced that where I came from should matter, when I could no longer try to simply ignore the taunts of having a flat face, squinty eyes and buck teeth. Then I thought the traits I shared with my dad, his self-assuredness, his athleticism, his wit and aptitude for making friends, no longer seemed related to me.

I try to take solace in the idea that my birth mother never left me. She appears each time I study my face in the mirror. I see her in the folds around my eyes where wrinkles will form. I see her in the dimple in my left cheek and the mole just below my left temple. I feel her in the warm embrace of my adoptive mother, entrusted through a universal maternal agreement.