I was 12 when my family acquired the beach house, a fixer-upper with views of a bay surrounded by forested hills. The Oregon coastline is long and varied, with rolling dunes to the south and rugged ports up north. Rocky cliffs jut straight up out of the ocean and then mellow out in long sandy beaches where you can stroll along the sea. Our house was somewhere around the middle, within walking distance from a beach you needed to wear a sweatshirt to even in summer. 

Back then, the community was bustling with activity in the summer. I was old enough, and the house was close enough, to explore the surrounding area without much supervision. I would go to the beach with my friends, and stroll along the bay on my own, sometimes just sitting and watching the water and wildlife. 

The trail I walked curved along the edge of the bay and ended at a quaint coastal shopping center along the 101. If I could swindle a family member out of some cash, the opportunities seemed endless. First, I would stop for treats, either at the candy store for chocolate caramels or salt-water taffy, or at the coffee shop with its case of fresh-baked pastries and small ice cream freezer. Being a middle-schooler with cash to burn on sweets felt like power, and I loved it. 

Having spent most, if not everything, I had on sugary snacks, I would wander through the little toy shop and peruse the books at the bookstore, making a mental list of things to badger my parents about getting me later. I’d take my time walking along the outdoor paths past the art gallery, jewelry shop, and other gift boutiques. The independence, alone time, and the sugar were intoxicating, providing unique moments of joy I couldn’t get anywhere else. 

Fast forward a couple of decades and the shops had all changed. The busy little stores with so many things to see and do had been replaced by a trendy brew pub and a gym. The beach house itself, once fixed up shiny and new, was starting to show its age. Yet, no matter how much time passed, escaping to the beach continued to soothe my soul. 

Throughout my years visiting that place, I never once thought it would be the place I would meet her. But there I was, standing in the middle of the same shopping center with its storefronts now mostly empty, waiting to meet my birth mother. At 35 years old, after debating with myself over whether it was a good idea or not, I had reached out to the woman I never thought I’d meet but always wondered about.

In the exchange of emails that followed initial contact, I was amazed to learn she had recently moved just five minutes away from the beach house. What once seemed impossible was now incredibly accessible.

She was late that day. My heart rate had already felt permanently elevated in the months leading up to this, and now my anxiety was higher than ever. Waiting for her in a place I had been familiar with since childhood was both comforting and surreal. The same rocky footpaths my 12-year-old feet passed over so often and with so much joy were now the same paths she and I would awkwardly wander together. 

I sat waiting, bundled in a new yellow raincoat. I’d be the one in yellow, she’d be the one with the flowers. After seeing a picture of her for the first time a few months before, I had hyper-focused on her familiar jawline and teeth, staring at these similarities with fascination and a deep sense of knowing. A face-to-face meeting seemed incomprehensible, yet there I was, waiting to meet her, buzzing with uncertainty. The first thing I saw was her huge smile and big bushy hair. Then came the seemingly insurmountable task of figuring out what to say and where to start with such an intimate stranger.

Our nervousness was palpable, so we decided to walk. The vacant shops provided little in the way of talking points and despite the hundreds of questions I had for her, I found myself having absolutely no idea what to say. Carrying the flowers she brought me, I walked beside her anxiously, feeling disconnected from the moment, unable to wrap my head around the magnitude of our meeting. 

Then it started to rain.

The downpour forced us into the covered area of one of the few operating establishments left. She bought me a drink and we talked for hours. 

The storm eventually eased, and we shared our second-ever goodbye. Our first parting left me with scars I still don’t fully understand, but this second goodbye was full of warmth and relief. I slowly walked back to the house along that curved trail hugging the bay, the mist curling through the trees and the cold biting at my cheeks. I passed an old bench I once used to sit on and count birds as a child. Now, I stopped to sit as an adult who just met their mother. 

I sat and watched the tide come in, feeling shocked and overwhelmed but also like a missing piece had finally settled into its place.