I have been searching for eleven and a half years for my daughter’s birthmother. My daughter was growing up and not only did I not have any medical information for her I also could not answer her very poignant questions about her adoption.
I continued to search. I often spent evenings and weekends scouring the web, and I continued to consult with various private detectives. Late one night I lay in bed obsessively going over in my head all the clues, I had gathered about where my daughter’s birthmother might be. One hunch, in particular, kept recurring. Finally, at 2 am I leapt out of bed and rushed to the computer. I checked one more fact, and then it hit me. I knew exactly where she was.
I could barely catch my breath watching the clock, willing time to go faster so I could rush to the address where I was certain I would find her. Of course, all sorts of things intervened to delay my progress the next day. I dropped my daughter off at a birthday party reminding her I would pick her up in a few hours for her piano recital. Finally, I was free to pursue my hunch driving swiftly to the house I believed would finally end my search.
I breathed deeply and knocked. She opened the door, and I knew immediately I had finally found her. She was beautiful, perhaps one of the most beautiful people I had ever met in person. She looked at me quizzically, “Yes?”
“Do you have a daughter?” I tentatively asked.
“Yes, a long time ago.”
“Who you placed for adoption?”
She stepped out of the house and closed the door behind her. “I know who you are. I have been looking for you too.”
I start to weep. “Do you want to see pictures of your daughter?” She smiled and nodded. We talk. I am not sure what I said or even how she responded. I cannot stop crying and telling her how happy I am to have finally found her. I know she is kind to me. We exchange email and phone numbers, and agree to meet again with the daughter we share. CONTINUE TO PART 3.