I grew up knowing I was adopted, and as a child, it never felt like an immense agreement. I moved schools often and would share it as my “interesting fact” when introducing myself. Adoption wasn’t a bad for me, it made me rare, and I had a happy childhood filled with love.
Everything switched on my eighteenth birthday. My parents gave me a file from the adoption organization with incomplete information about my birth parents. For me, it was a gem. I had so less information about my birth mother and nothing about my father. Any information was valuable. The folder included images of their arrival, their siblings, and the fact that my mother had also been adopted. My parents had delayed until they thought I could grip it, and I guess I was prepared.
I directly speculated: what was she like? Would I look like her or share her interests? I decided to take the next step and contacted the adoption agency. Because it was a closed adoption, a third party had to moderate contact. They told me my birth mother had once reached out to the agency, but they couldn’t give her information. I assumed finding her would be easy, but it wasn’t.
The agency couldn’t reach her, so I started searching on my own. Eventually, they gave me her first name. It was common, but for me, she suddenly became real. I searched websites and opportunities for adoptees and birth parents. Most stories were distressing, parents searching for children who had been placed for adoption.
One night, I found a post that matched my information. It included my birth mother’s name, and though it was common, I felt sure it was her. I asked a friend to send an email for me: “I think I might be who you’re looking for.” A few days later, my friend called, excited: she had replied. I waited before calling her myself. Sitting on my bathroom floor with a notebook in hand, I spoke to her for over an hour. She told me about the three days she had me before handing me over, about my father, and about her life now. It was everything I had hoped for.
After that, she disappeared. Texts went unrequited for years. I went on to have four children, each birth reminding me of her. I continued to send her two texts a year, just hoping she knew I existed. Then, when my youngest turned one, I called her again. She answered, kind but distant. We arranged a meeting, but she never showed.
Years passed with little contact. Then, during the early days of COVID, her partner reached out: she was very ill and being moved to a hospital. My heart sank, but I stayed positive. For weeks, I spoke to her by phone daily, homeschooling my children while keeping her company as best I could.
She was eventually brought home but fell critically ill again and went into hospice. I was finally allowed to visit. I spent the day by her side, talking to her son, sharing stories, and hoping she could feel our love, even if she couldn’t respond.
During this time, I had also taken DNA tests. A volunteer helped me sift through the results, and I discovered a sister. Reaching out, I learned there were more siblings, two more, and then another. My birth mother had five children in total; all placed for adoption at different times. I was the oldest.
In her final days, we all connected. I spoke with my siblings, shared stories, and imagined her happiness in knowing her children had found each other. Hours after our final connections, she passed away. She had waited for all of us to find each other, and I am so thankful, I was able to reach her in time.
Her passing marked the end of one chapter and the start of another. The sorrow was strong, but so was the peace I felt knowing her legacy, five children who would carry her love and memory forward. Finding my siblings and learning the life she had lived gave me purpose and viewpoint. My healing begins now, entrenched in gratefulness, love, and the value of time.
