Thirty-four years ago, as an infant, I was taken home from the hospital by a family that was not my own. I was adopted by a couple who were unable to conceive children. I was raised in a loving environment with two sisters who were also adopted. I have known that I was adopted for as long as I can remember. Our parents had always told us that we were their chosen babies. I had a great childhood. Our mom stayed home to take care of us. I loved school. I was in Girl Scouts, and we participated in all of our church’s activities. My life always felt complete.
Sometimes, though, I would let my mind wander about my biological family. I had unanswered questions.
After I had children of my own, the need to know about my past grew. The only information I had been given was a vague physical description of my biological parents and what they did for a living. The adoption papers listed an older half sister from a previous marriage. I was pretty certain that searching with what little info I had would be hopeless.
I put my personal information on every adoption registry website I could find, just in case someone was looking for me. I just wanted to see pictures of them and find out how their lives had turned out. I worried that any searching I did would be an intrusion. I didn’t want to disrupt anyone’s life just to satisfy my curiosity. I pushed searching out of my mind, and the years passed by.
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