Letter #2- Angry sounding- I didn't send it

Dear Colette,

I hate to start this letter by stating the obvious, as it pains me to be so simple minded, but I think I will anyway. You don't know me, but I bet you wished you did. Notice the past tense verbiage. I say that in the past tense because, I am probably something you rarely think about today, 35 years later. I am probably a crushed up little pipe dream that you shoved in the back of your closet, way behind the porn magazines, the lonely single socks that are missing their mates, behind the old dresser that belonged to your great grandmother that you can barely stand to look at, with it's faded black wooden stain and handles that make a distinctive jingling sound when you pull them out and let go quickly, but that you still own because your mother couldn't let it go, and you therefore, couldn't either. I am probably a smashed up empty cigarette box thrown on the highway by some uneducated, probably formerly imprisoned, redneck who doesn't recognize nor admire the true beauty of unspoiled nature. I am that puzzle that you could never finish because you lost the piece, the one that you oddly donated to Goodwill, thinking that some poor soul would somehow enjoy finishing it more than you did despite its lack of completeness.
On the other hand, I could be that stranger you met, that one night at the grocery store who you had an amazing five minute conversation with, the one who gazed intently at you, who stared right through your soul, but that you just let walk out the double automatic sliding doors, while your mouth hung open, and your heart pounded, and the whole drive home from the store you cursed yourself for not giving him your phone number at the risk of being, well, being risky. Or, I could be that beautiful, melodic song that you heard on that random radio station on your son's XM that you rarely listen to, the song that you loved so much when you heard, but never knew what it was called, and never heard the radio station number in time to call to find out. Regardless of how you view me, what you think of me, how I turned out, where I was raised, and by whom, I am here, alive and well, and curious now to know you. By now, I'm sure, since you are a woman donned with intelligence from what I've been told, you are aware of who this is. Do I need to say the words to make it real enough? Should I have sent a singing telegram for you to have been able to touch? I am your daughter.
This is the third letter I've written to you, and probably the last. I haven't liked either of the other two letters enough to print them out, and drop them in the mail. I'm not sure that I like this one even. It's been more of a creative writing experiment at this point. I have now known your name and address for over a month, and feel completely fine with waiting to send this letter. Seeing as how I've been through the motions for 35 years now, I guess it makes it somewhat easier to stomach. I've cried already. I've bitten my nails. I've dreamed about meeting you, and formed my own twisted reality in my mind of what our reunion would be like. Of course, some would say I probably need to get some mental help, but I'm not worried about it. I know who I am, and I can honestly sit here and say that I think I will be ok if you decide you want nothing to do with me. That is your prerogative. I don't want to interfere on your life, nor steal any happiness you may have by interjecting myself into your proverbial mix.
I want nothing from you, but to know where I came from. I think I deserve to know someone who is like me. I realize that this may sound abrasive, even hinting at anger, but I want to be completely frank here. I am not angry at all, but I am guilty of being blunt, and to the point, sometimes fearless, occasionally cowardly.
Nevertheless, I have had an incredible life, with every opportunity afforded to me that you probably prayed for many nights while crying to God. I have an amazing family, and most people would consider me to be blessed, and by my own standards, I am pretty proud of the woman I've become. And you would be too, if you would take the chance to meet me. It's important to me for you to know that I am not mad at you, and never have been. I understand that what you did was both incredibly selfless and loving, and I have a great deal of respect for any woman who can see past her own nose, when the world and its suroundings and its materialism often make it easy to be self-centered, unaware. After all, had you not given me up for adoption, I would not be where I am today. And I am happy to be me.
My number is here. My address is here. I think it's been long enough. Don't you?

I enclosed a picture of me and my daughter, Sarah. She's four. You can see by looking at her, she's nothing shy of my whole world, just as I imagine I would have been to you, had you not done what you felt was right and what was neccessary in that tough year you suffered my loss.

With nothing but kindness, truth and love, your birthdaughter,

Brooke Fairley