I Completed My Family

I am the third child. But I am the fourth born.

You could read that again, if you like. But there is no mistake about it. That is the truth. I may be third in place but technically fourth in order.

Try as I may, I do not remember how I discovered the truth about me. I certainly would not have asked about it because – as far as I knew – there was no event between me and the second born. Vague childhood memories give me images of an old record that my mother hides in her dresser. There is one word that has been burned into my recall: miscarriage.

My mother can regale you with endless tales about her days as a girl or years as a student, rich with minutiae that no longer exist in this century and yet she’d remember them with such wonderful exactness that you’d want to hear more. But, one time I asked about that record, the details in her tale become sparse. The storytelling was like an office assistant laden with so many documents and was sweating inside a taxi while trapped in the middle of the busiest highway in the country during rush hour of a pay day. There’s good reason why she does not talk about it and, if ever she does, why it is difficult to do so. I understand her and my father. And I do not blame my parents or question their silence. So I asked only once and never again.

For years, when I would recall her stories of how she bore and birthed me, I would see them as one would see reflections found in a house of mirrors: misshapen, grotesque, unnatural. Growing up with that warped truth wrapped a certain odd sense about me.

How twisted were my thoughts?

I am a replacement for the dead. I am a substitute for the lost. I am a second choice, a second thought. I am the alternative. I am Plan B. I was only created to fill in that vacant seat. I am a mere filler, a glorified stand-in. Whenever I looked at family photos, I would blur out my own face. I tried imagining how the photographs would be if the original third kid was there instead of me. But how could I picture someone who never existed? I shed tears at that failure.

Just a few days ago, I learned that there is a term for my kind: rainbow baby.

Rainbow baby, the child born after a miscarriage, stillborn, or infant/child death. It sounds beautiful, kind, almost magical. Despite being one, I did not understand why we’re called that. I couldn’t make a connection to the rainbow.

Then, came the many stories, each one stained with a sorrow known only to parents who had lost a baby. Could I begin to imagine what my own parents went through when the child was miscarried? Could I fathom how it is to mourn for a life that ended even before it began? Could I understand a pain that only they could bear and never share with anyone else? No.

Within the name is the meaning. Rainbows appear after a storm. They are the color against a dark sky, the hope amidst the despair. All parents take time to move forward after a loss. And I believe it takes even more strength to try again. Mine took about two years. Despite having the opportunities to know about me even before my birth, they chose that I remain a mystery until they saw me and held me and heard me for the first time. They trusted that I would be born, I would live, and I would grow up. And I did all that!

This newfound perspective, this truth has straightened out all the warped memories and twisted reflections I’ve had. The mirrors are cleared, as is my vision. I now see the rainbow in the reflection. I wasn’t just added to the home. I completed my family.

I write this to other rainbow babies like me. Know that you were never replacements or substitutes or fillers in your families. You are hope. You are light. You are life. You are wanted. You, dear child, are loved.


4 Comments Add yours

  1. Pilgrim says:

    I am glad you were born no matter what they say. You can sing a rainbow….

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Mati Serrano says:

      Thank you for that.


  2. Kriztin Cruz says:

    Reading this, and I look at you, and my heart’s heavy.You’re a smart, brave man who deserves all the rainbows in his life. I’m so happy you were the storm after the rain.

    Thank you so much for a heartfelt post on a matter too personal and sensitive to open up. I may not be a rainbow baby, but my existence is almost close to qualify as one.

    I’m the first child of the third generation in my mother’s side of the family, but the second one born alive. The first cousin before me was a ‘blue baby’ see-the result of the mother smoking a bit and drinking too much coke during pregnancy caused a huge hole on the wall of her heart that the developing stages couldn’t close up. She was supposed to have brought the sunshine in my grandparents’ lives.

    Sometimes I wonder if the love they give me is a displacement of the yearning they have for her since they paid more attention to me than my two younger siblings. The thought hurts sometimes, but thanks to you, I might think of that less often and see myself as a fuller person.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Mati Serrano says:

      I believe I have a pretty good idea how you felt. It bites being or even just believing that you’re getting something meant for someone else–something meant to be enjoyed but couldn’t.
      I truly hope you get past all those negative feelings and thoughts. And I pray that you come to terms with your own being.


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