Our long-running reader series continues with a heartbreaking account from a woman who was adopted at birth in the late ’60s and never reconciled with that:
I always knew I was adopted and it haunted me—perhaps because I had such a bad relationship with my mother, or perhaps because I KNEW something of my birth family. I knew I had siblings. (I was an only child in my adopted family.) I knew that there were people out there I was connected to but didn’t know. I was obsessed with this knowledge and it ate at me.
When I turned 20, my adopted mother asked if I wanted to meet my birth family. Well, of COURSE I did. I wanted to know why. I wanted to know THEM.
So they arranged a meeting. Afterwards, my adopted mother was horrified that I still had a desire to stay in contact with my birth family. She thought I would just meet them, get answers to all my questions and walk away. It drove a bigger wedge between my adopted parents and me.
Over the years, I rarely saw my birth family, out of respect for my adopted family. But a few years ago, my adopted mother died. (My father died years ago.) So I decided to try and have a better relationship with my birth family.