What lies beneath all of us, that which makes a sane person crazy? Or a rich person poor? A righteous person evil? An honest person as deceitful as the mirage of a flood in the desert?

I think about these questions, and life in general, as I stand outside the door to my mother's home. The mother bound to me by blood, separated by self-inflicted documentation stating she'd surrendered her rights to me upon birth.

And as I wait for her to answer the door, I think, what makes a woman give up a child? What makes her surrender this God-given rite of passage?

Guess I'll soon find out. She's unlocking the door.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

Standing there, from what is tangible to what remains a mystery, I see many shades of gray in this woman. Her hair, blended with the essence of natural black and of aging light, different hues of strands, from the color of thunder clouds to cement, from ash to white, her varying highlights appear neutral yet natural.

But her chided demeanor speaks of either fear or loathing. Her emotions too hard to read, I simply explain who I am, and let her reaction to the truth define her mood.

"Renee Waterford?"

She peeks out into the street. "Who's calling?"

Calling?

"Uh, I believe I'm your daughter."

"Excuse me?"

"Did you have a child twenty-eight years ago?"

"Look, I don't know who you are, or what you want, but please leave, now!"

She slams the door in my face. Thanks, Mom.

I walk away from the house, knowing it could have gone either way. But before I get out of earshot, she opens the door again.

"Wait," she says.

I turn around.

She nods at me to come inside.

I walk past her and into the foyer. Modern with a quaint feel, the house is a cross between old-country and the new millennium, wood-patterned walls yet with the latest in Kenmore appliances. It speaks of history and yet of change.

"Sit," she says. "Would you like something to drink?"

I waste no time. "As long as it comes with a splash of answers."

She stops. Then fills a glass with water anyway, and hands it to me.

"I'm not the person you're looking for," she says.

"Then who are you?"

Before she can answer, a frail woman, appearing to be sixty-ish, crutches into the living room. Immediately, I rise to my feet in awe of what had eluded me for years. It has to be her.

The woman who'd answered the door, says, "Now Renee, what are you doing out of bed?"

"They're coming. Martin tells me so. We must go!" the frail woman says. Then she looks at me.

Why do I feel

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