Inheritance

When I worked on my calendar this weekend, I noted that my book club meets in only two weeks, and I have not yet completed our book.

So I read it this afternoon. The book is Inheritance, by Dani Shapiro.

I have nothing in common with the book. I mean, nothing.

Shapiro subscribes to a DNA testing outfit and discovers she is not the biological child of her father. On further investigation, she comes to learn that her parents sought the help of a donor program in order to conceive her. She learns that in the 1960's, when she was conceived, parents were told that the husband's sperm was being "treated," rather than told that his sperm was mixed with the sperm of a healthy medical student just looking for a way to pay for med school.

Shapiro grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, constantly told she "doesn't look Jewish."

See? I have nothing in common with her.

Yet. I sobbed through it. Sobbed.

I am undeniably the daughter of both of my parents. When I am slender, I unmistakably resemble my mother. At her funeral, people would take a look at me and burst in tears, I looked so much like a young Betty. I have her height, her hooded eyelids, her long face.

When I'm heavier, I look like a female version of my dad. I have his high forehead, his turtle-like posture, his wide fingers.

From both of them, I have their mutual intelligence.

So why did Inheritance make me cry?

I wonder, myself.

I related to Shapiro's images of trolling her neighborhood, watching and envying warm and happy families. She walked her dog around the block, around and around, looking in on other families.

I rode my bicycle.

When she found her biological father, he was at first reluctant to meet her. He had a family and did not want to upset anyone.

Later, he had second thoughts and agreed to meet her. It could have gone any way. Their meeting could have been remote. It could have been lukewarm. Instead, it was love at first sight.

I sobbed and sobbed.

My own parents both lost parents at young ages, and were ill equipped to handle anything emotional. When I reacted to situations and cried, they called me, Sarah Bernhardt. At other times, their silence was deafening; their stoicism icy. While I try to be a warmer person, I have nothing in my background to rely on.

My dad "disowned" me more times than I can recall -- once because my middle-school son was a fan of Bob Dole. I married months before Dad's death. I could not take my husband home to meet dad; he was afraid we would steal from him.

I do not have a biological father, alive, out there in the world. My own father and mother are dead. I do not have the happy and warm family I always fantasized about. Shapiro found hers. My family, my real family, is the same one that I've known, and been rejected by, for decades.

Maybe that's why I cried.