Chapter two: I don’t know who I am anymore!

Have you ever had everything that is dear and important to you, taken away by just one sentence? “We are not your real parents, Rubellita!”
I must have made them say it at least five times, poor Pa and Ma. I just could not believe my ears! What does “real” parents mean? Are there also “false” parents then? Disbelief, anger, utter sadness, they all fought for first place in my emotional outburst. I screamed, I did not want to believe what my parents said. I hoped it was not true, that it was just some cruel joke they played, to test me, to see if I had really come of age. I begged them to tell me that it was not true! They shook their heads, sad expression on their sweet faces. “So sorry, dearest, but it is the truth.”
I ran! With tears freely flowing, I left the burrow, ran into the Toad Marsh, contemplated to head straight into the Old Forest. The soggy marshland slowed me down sufficiently to let me regain my senses before I reached the Old Forest tunnel, the opening in the hedge that keeps whatever evil lurks in the Forest away from peaceful Buckland.
For hours, I just roamed around until I finally reached the banks of the Brandywine river. I stared over the water, trying to align my thoughts. Finally, I bent down, splashed some cool river water in my face and headed home again. Pa and Ma are not my parents. Suppose for one moment that this is true.. Am I still a Brandybuck then? Or even Rubellita?? Who are Pa and Ma? Silly question, as I’ve known them all my life, but I really did not know anymore. And then the key question: If they are not my real parents then who are my real parents? And why was I not with them?
I came home, hugged my desperate, but now relieved, Ma. A neighbour was sent out to call Pa back from his search for me and meanwhile I sat down with the hobbit I had always regarded as my mother. But who wasn’t. My head started spinning again. I felt queasy, but braced myself, as Ma was about to tell me more.
“You are in many ways my child, but I never gave birth to you.” I frowned, but forced myself to listen. “And Pa is not the one who gave life to you.” I knew enough about how babies were born to understand the meaning of these words. “But who..?”, I wanted to know.
Ma opened a small cabinet and took something out that she put on the table. A small basket, oblong, lined with a pink silky cloth, big enough to contain a newborn hobbit-baby. In it were a few objects. With a sigh and after drying tears from her eyes, Ma told me the story of how I came to be with them.
An elderly, wrinkled hobbit oldie came to their door one day. She had something to offer, she said. She knew Pa and Ma did not have children of their own, although they wanted one very dearly. And now there was a child that needed to be fostered, it’s parents unknown, probably never to be found. They had just left the infant on her doorstep, without any message. “But wait!”, Ma interrupted my immediate question, “This proved not to be entirely true.” Pa and Ma talked it over between them, but very quickly decided to accept the old gammer’s offer. That evening I was delivered to them in this basket that stood before me. I touched it, felt he lining and then held the little blanket against my cheek. It felt so comforting, somehow. “So, we’ve raised you to who you are today, Rubellita. And the old gammer was never seen or heard of ever after.” My head was spinning with a million questions, the most prevalent being: who’s child am I, if I am not the child of Ma and Pa? Part of the answer was given to me right there. Ma ran her fingers behind the lining of the basket and produced a weathered piece of paper. There was writing on it, the ink had faded in some places, but I was still able to read. “This note was inside the basket with you, hidden. It must have been written by your real mother.” With trembling hands and upcoming tears I read the note in my hands:

To whoever will read this,

Please, take good care of this little baby, born only a few hours ago. But I am not allowed to keep her. In time I will try to find her, but meanwhile I beg of all that meet her, to aid her as well as you can. Her name is Rubellita, her mother is Yola, her father is (*name has been written but is crossed out and illegible*). She has an uncle named Peppy. Please, please, help my little daughter until I find her again!

Yola Plumblossom.

There was a name, the name of my “real” mother. But my mind still rebelled against the thought of me not being Ma’s daughter, I just could not believe it. “It’s a fake, isn’t it?” I held the note up against a lit candle to try and read the crossed out part, looked at the backside for more information, but there just wasn’t anything else written. Ma shook her head: no, no fake. I read again and again.
With a sigh, I concluded that my name was actually Rubellita and nothing else. Not Ruby, not Amaldine, not Jade or Emeralda.. “Great, I get to keep my name!”, I thought sarcastically, “it is maybe the only thing that will not change.” (I there and then decided to not let others change my name or abbreviate it to Ruby anymore). And in twenty one years this mother had not found me? And how about the father? Someone did not want his name revealed, but who? This mother, the father... I still could not accept the notion that they were my mother and my father.. my real parents: one Yola Plumblossom and some unknown lad.

Next: Looking for Yola.