The Naked Truth: The Real Story Behind the Real Housewife of New Jersey--In Her Own Words Read Free Page A

brother she has never known, “Listen, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you weren’t the first child born to our mother. I was.” I’ve never wanted to destroy someone else’s family unit, a group of innocent people who know nothing about me.
    I convinced myself that my mom probably didn’t come find me because she’d moved on and it would hurt her new family.Or maybe they all did actually know about me but I was part of such a hurtful memory from the past that my mother was forbidden by her current husband to acknowledge it. Or maybe she just didn’t care anymore. Of course, it could be a combination of all three. Or I could be completely wrong about all of these possibilities. One thing’s for sure: I am quite curious.
    Abortion was not an option for my birth mother for religious reasons, so her only choice was to eventually give me up for adoption. I admire her strength for coming all the way to the United States from Italy, giving birth to me, then walking away and believing that I would have a better life.
    If my birth mother decided to come forward, I would like to speak with her. I’d like to find out why she never tried to find me after all these years. I would also like her to meet my children. I’d even like her to cook a meal with my daughters and me. It doesn’t sound as if I’m asking for much, does it? Just an experience like what every daughter probably has with her mother. As a mom, I cook with my daughters often, and it’s always time well spent together—we share ideas and thoughts and talk about our lives and dreams. We make dishes together from start to finish, enjoy our accomplishments, and savor the taste of food cooked with love. I realize that this might sound simple, but I think these moments are extremely important to our development as women.
    I’ve spent a good part of my life wondering what the conversation would be like between my birth mother and me if we ever met one-on-one. All she would have to do is lookme in the eye and say, “I’m sorry.” It seems like such a simple gesture. I would just want her to say something that would make me truly believe in my heart and soul that she feels bad that I had to go through even a minute of what I endured during my childhood. Once my birth mother offered me a heartfelt apology, I wouldn’t discuss the subject with her again. Not ever again.

2
STOLEN FLOWER
    I was five days old when my parents picked me up at the hospital in the summer of 1962. I was a big healthy baby with a full head of tight brown ringlets. My mother said my birth mother must have had a lot of agita during her pregnancy because that’s what happens to mothers who give birth to babies with a lot of hair. She also said that I was the most beautiful baby in the nursery and she was so happy to get me. They named me Beverly.
    When I arrived home with my new parents, they had playthings suited only for boys. They’d had six boys prior to my arrival and didn’t know if they would be adopting a boy or a girl, so they weren’t prepared for a female. They didn’t care if I was a boy or a girl, just as long as they got a healthy baby. However, itseemed that my mother didn’t quite know how to take care of a completely healthy baby. I suppose that’s understandable, since her own sons had all been seriously ill.
    My parents were struggling with the trauma of having lost five of their birth children to cystic fibrosis. At the time I entered their lives, they were trying to keep the sixth one, Ronnie, alive and were making frequent trips back and forth to the Children’s Hospital for Cystic Fibrosis in Philadelphia.
    Cystic fibrosis is a chronic, life-threatening disease that impairs the lungs’ capacity to hold enough air for normal breathing on one’s own. A thick mucus forms in the lungs and digestive tract, creating a blockage. This inherited disease strikes children and young adults. Some treatments and various oxygen tanks have been specially designed to combat