A reader, Kim, brings back our adoption series with the story of her search for her birth family:
My story begins in 1962. I was adopted at six months old. My bedtime story, as a child, was about the special day when my parents received a phone call that they had a daughter. Mom and Dad said I was dressed in a pink dress and black patent leather shoes. They called me their living doll.
I had amazing parents! Both wise and loved me dearly. During my younger years I knew I was loved, but I also knew that I was different from my adoptive parents—different talents, different looks. Whenever I thought about having birth parents, it was like putting my mind in a deep, dark, vast space—nothing existed. My constant thought was, “I wonder if someone out there looks like me, and is similar to me.”
When my first son was born, I thought, “My first blood relative that I know,” though oddly I thought of him as my husband’s son. My second son looked just like me. I was so happy! But again, I thought of him as my husband’s son. Same when my third son was born.
I realized at that point that I had never really felt connected to anyone. Maybe because my heritage was missing. I didn’t know where I came from. No real sense of belonging to anyone.
Before my adopted dad died he asked me if I ever wondered about my birth family. I responded with “sometimes,” but didn’t want to hurt my parents’ feelings. In their mind and in my mind, they were my parents. Dad then told me that in 1962, a social worker told them that my birth parents were both in college, smart, and named me Elizabeth Christine May. At that point my life changed.