I was 38 when my parents passed away, and as their only child, it was up to me to take care of everything. It wasn’t easy, but I started going through their things, focusing on important documents and bills that needed to be settled. I planned to move into their house. It was mine, after all, and it would save me from paying rent.
That’s when I found something that would change my life completely. In a box in their closet, among old papers, was a letter addressed to me. I had never seen it before. It was accompanied by adoption papers. At 36, I had just found out I was adopted, completely by accident. My parents had never told me and I don’t think they intended to.
What was I supposed to do with that? I turned the paper over and found my birth mother’s full name and address. She lived in San Antonio.
After a few months of thinking about it, I finally gave in. I bought a plane ticket and looked her up on social media. I even found where she worked—a coffee shop, where she was a waitress and barista.
And then it happened. I was sitting in the coffee shop, looking at the woman who had given birth to me, and she had no idea who I was. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her.
But, as life always throws surprises, something completely unexpected happened, something I could never have predicted.
I remember looking down at the menu I wasn’t really reading. My heart was pounding hard against my ribs. The door to the kitchen squeaked, and I saw her reappear with a tray of drinks. She was shorter than me, with warm brown eyes and a calm smile as she handed out lattes to a group at a nearby table.
My mind was racing: Should I speak up? Should I just leave? Just as I decided to gather my courage, I heard her call out to someone behind the bar. “Camilo! Can you bring out more almond milk?” Her voice was soft but steady. I froze, my heart quickening again.
Camilo, the young man behind the bar, rushed to the back to get what she needed. Then she turned and noticed me for a moment. She gave me the typical polite nod that servers often do. I waved slightly, thinking this was the moment I’d introduce myself. But then, another customer signaled for her attention, and she hurried away.
I couldn’t leave it at that, though. As my birth mother disappeared into the kitchen, I found my feet taking me to the restroom just to splash some cold water on my face. When I came out, I bumped into a man who was walking in from the side entrance. He had kind eyes and wore a weathered baseball cap. We apologized to each other, and he noticed how flustered I seemed.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked gently.
I nodded. “Yeah, just… new in town, a little nervous.”
He gave me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. This place feels like home once you settle in. Martina—our star barista—always makes people feel welcome.”
Martina. It clicked. My birth mother’s name was Martina Delgado. Hearing someone else say it, so casually, made it real.
I tried to steady my breathing and returned to my seat. My coffee had grown lukewarm, but I sipped it anyway. It was either now or never. I caught Martina’s attention with a small gesture, and she approached.
“Everything okay?” she asked, setting down a napkin in front of me. Her hands trembled just a bit, and I wondered if she sensed something odd about me.
I cleared my throat, realizing my palms were sweaty. “Hi, um… Do you have a moment?”
She glanced at the crowded tables, then back at me. “Sure, I can spare a minute.”
“Could we maybe talk outside?” I asked, gesturing to the side door. “It’s a bit loud in here.”
Her brow furrowed. “I… guess so. Just give me a sec.”
She told one of her coworkers she was stepping out. We walked outside, where a gentle breeze made the Texas heat more bearable. I could hardly believe I was standing there, face to face with my biological mother.
I took a deep breath. “Martina, my name is Ramon,” I said, making sure not to speak too quickly. “I’m—this is going to sound crazy—but I think I’m your son.”
