Growing up, I always asked my mother if I was adopted. She has pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. I on the other hand, have all dark features just like my father. That exotic contrast between our appearances was a dead give away. My five-year-old mind was convinced that she was not my real mother.

Let’s fast forward to about age ten. Yes, it took five years of reminiscing in old family photo albums and family trees, lessons on how dominant genes dictate the makeup of offspring, and blood tests proving I was my mother’s child before I no longer annoyed my mom with the many questions of where I came from.

As funny as it seems, I have not been the only one who have believed I do not belong to my mother. Whether we are checking out at the grocery store, traveling through airports, or doing anything out in public, people always treat us as two separate parties. I should win some sort of award for the amount of times strangers have wondered what the relationship is between my mother and I. Sometimes we’re lucky and people won’t hesitate to ask us. We share a few laughs and explain that if they saw my dad’s dark coloring, they would understand why I look nothing like my mom. Other times, my mom and I will both notice the strangers staring at me and then at my mother with the deepest look of confusion as if they are struggling to solve a puzzle, which makes these encounters awkward and uncomfortable. I am 18 years old and these instances happen at least once every day, sometimes five minutes apart, no exaggeration.

These regular occurring encounters have their setbacks, but they never fail to make entertaining dinner conversations.

Let me share some examples of what my mom and I experience in our every day life. I’m warning you however; these scenarios are the raw given truth.

Scenario 1:
When I arrived at my doctor’s appointment, I had let the doctor know that I was expecting my mom to catch up with us. Within minutes, my mom walked through the door and the doctor freaked out and abruptly slammed the door before my mom could even get her arm though it. “Thank goodness I was right in front of the door. I wouldn’t want some random lost parent running in on you. How rude of her, I greatly apologize,” the doc said to me. I simply stopped her and told her the truth as she embarrassingly let my mother back in.

Scenario 2:
My mom and I had just fastened our seatbelts on the plane, waiting for the flight attendants to do one last cabin check before take off. My mom sat in the window seat and I sat in the middle with an empty seat next to me. As the flight attendant came over to our row she looked at me and whispered, “ This is not a full flight, so you are more than welcome to move into the aisle seat and stretch out a little. Give that woman some space, you know unless that is your mom or something.” My mom and I started to laugh as I told the flight attendant who she is and that I was comfortable with where I was sitting.

Scenario 3:
My elementary school was really strict about who each student gets released to when school get out each day. For safety reasons, the administration made sure that the adults picking up their students are who they say they are. Once my mom came to pick me up, the office staff would not release me to her because they were sure that she was not my mom, but rather a blonde hair and blue-eyed Barbie who was trying to abduct a Middle Eastern looking child. I told them she was my mom, but they had to check her ID to see if at least our last names were the same before they felt comfortable letting me leave with her.

I always have been quick to correct people when they mistake me for being adopted or assuming that my mother and I are not related. I secretly think I rush to tell the strangers the truth because I try to convince them I am not adopted just like how my family tried to convince me. I guess I try to save people the five years it took me to finally believe it. Plus, it is amusing to see how people react once I tell them they are wrong.

Looking back at the way I have reacted and consistently responded to every experience, I now wonder why I have never just gone along with it? There is no reason why I should have to tell people that she is my “real” mother or not, especially when I could benefit from the situations where I pretended we weren’t related.

For instance, had I not cleared up the confusion with my doctor, my mother would have lost her chance of reminding the doctor the main reason why I had originally made the appointment. I could have talked my way out of the five shots I was scheduled to get that day. I would have saved my poor arms from all of that numbing pain.

Or what if I took the flight attendant up on her offer and requested to move to any other empty seat available about the cabin. Who knows, maybe she would have offered me a seat in first class. After all, first class passengers have the most legroom to stretch out.

Maybe if I acted as though I had never seen my mother before when she came to pick me up from school, they would have had to run thorough background checks and maybe even scan her finger prints. Oh I could have had the administration wrapped around my little finger. They would believe an innocent little kid over a woman who looks nothing like me, trying to convince them that she is my mother. It only takes about three minutes for my mom to pick me up from school, but with all those extra security screenings it would have taken at least a half hour, long enough to make me late for the thing I dread the most, band lessons. Coincidence? I think not.

Next time my mother and I find ourselves experiencing yet another story worthy of sharing at the dinner table, I get to make a choice whether or not to correct people or go along with the game. In some scenarios, the truth is best kept hidden.

It’s always an adventure when my mom and I leave the house together. My list of scenarios continues to grow each day. I know I am not adopted, but it will be fun to pretend sometimes and take advantage of people’s mistakes; you never know what can become of it.