The Lost Boy

She spent 35 years looking for him.

35 years of growing up, growing older, having children of her own, making the decision and the sacrifice to raise her son’s child when he turned out to be too young, immature, and, yes, maybe even dysfunctional, to do it himself. Thirty five years spent wondering about a baby boy she knew only briefly and then never saw again.

It was 1976. Winter. She was 20 years old, idealistic, anti-establishment, a card-carrying member of the communist party living in a co-op in the Midwest on a beautiful plot of land overlooking a large lake in the midst of a university campus. There were a handful of children living in the co-op, and they all considered the children to be their own, to some extent. That was part of it—the collective mothering, the responsibility and desire to look out for one another. There was only one infant, an adorable boy who at 8 months old had lived among them for maybe 6 months.

One day, she heard crying. She heard it, and expected to hear it stop. The crying only intensified. She went to investigate, running through cavernous hallways with no central heating, to the room the infant boy shared with his 25 year old mother. She wasn’t there. The windows were wide open, letting the cold and even the snow in, and still, she heard crying.

He was there, in the crib, wearing nothing but a wet diaper. Shocked, she grabbed him, changed him, closed the windows, rocked him and covered him in blankets. She fed him a bottle. There was no sign of his mother, not for hours. When she finally returned, she turned on her in a fury and demanded to know how she could leave him like that. He could have gotten sick! He could have died!

And the baby’s mother said: “He needs to learn how to be alone.”

She sat there, stunned, knowing what she must do. Someone came to get him a few weeks later. She didn’t see him again, not for 35 years.

How could she know what she had done that day? How could she know that she had, perhaps, instilled in that boy a sixth sense, an ability to ask for help and to find someone who would be willing and able to care for him? How could she know that he would be raised with unconditional love by other family members until he was taken away, by his mother, at six years old? How could she know that the little boy would find others like her: his mother’s boyfriends, his friends’ parents, legions of people, who would help to raise him over the years?

She could not know that. She knew nothing of him. She had no idea if he had survived. And then, someone came up with the idea of a reunion for the still-running co-op. That was it--her chance, her excuse, to finally find the lost boy. He was hard to find, off the grid almost, but eventually she had success. An email was sent. Days later, he responded.

He was alive.

He lived less than 200 miles away. He agreed to attend the reunion with his wife and children.

He had a wife and children.

She was, of course, thrilled at the idea of seeing him again, having thought of him so often over the years. But in some sense, seeing him mattered less now that she knew he was out there in the world living out the promise of his life.

He arrived with his family, looking out of place in sensible clothes, with no piercings or tattoos, pushing a stroller and holding his daughter’s hand. She brimmed with illogical pride. She gave a tour, talked to them at dinner, asked a handful of polite questions. And then, as he wandered the grounds with his children, she pulled his wife aside and said this to her:

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see that he grew up.”

And she couldn’t help but tell his wife the story of that cold room in February, a story that boy had never heard. And his wife smiled knowingly at her, suddenly understanding the chronology of his placement in his grandparents’ home at 9 months old, realizing she was talking to a woman who had saved her husband’s life, in more ways than she might ever know.

She looked for him for 35 years.

Once she found him, she could let him go, as she did that other time, though it broke her heart.

And how could she know, really? How can any of us know the impact of our best and most selfless actions, the ones that make us afraid, make us sad, make us question whether or not we have done the right thing?

She could only know if someone could tell her. She could know if she could see him now, refusing an invitation to go out with the guys because he would rather be home with his family. She could know if she could see him get up from the couch, kiss his wife, and go upstairs to help his son settle down, his son whom many fathers might think was too old to be called sweetie. She could know if she could hear him sing softly to the boy until he fell back to sleep.

She could only know if someone could tell her.

So, I will tell her: Thank you. And me too. I am awfully happy to see that he grew up.





(He's under that pile of kids, somewhere...)