In early June 2011, I opened an email that changed my life. It was sent by a woman who worked at the adoption agency that rehomed me when I was a newborn. She was looking for someone with my maiden name who’d been orphaned in South Korea 38 years ago and shipped overseas wearing a onesie with tiny red hearts printed on its front. She was looking for someone like me.
I was impatient at first — I wanted to know who was searching for me. Was it a long-lost uncle or a third cousin? Maybe it was a step-sibling? It couldn’t possibly be a biological parent, because my adoption records noted that I’d been “abandoned at birth with no living relatives.” My parents were told that my biological mother was likely destitute or young, maybe both. She might have been a shamed high school student or a sex worker. These were common assumptions when a baby was orphaned in South Korea at that time.
After confirming my identity, the woman from the adoption agency wrote one last email. “You are the person I’ve been searching for. Do you have time for a phone call next week?”
I insisted we speak that same day, because I have never been one for suspense, much less surprises. I’m the kind of person who looks up how a movie ends before I’ve finished it, or buys a book and reads the last chapter first.
When the woman from the adoption agency called, she asked: “Are you sitting down?”
“You’re not driving a car?”
“OK, good. Well, I’m happy to tell you that you have family in South Korea. Your mother is alive and well,” she said. “I’m so sorry, but your father passed away from lung cancer. You have two younger brothers, and…” She paused. “You have a twin sister.”
“Oh my God,” I heard myself say. “Oh my God.”
After we hung up, I wilted — literally — and found myself sitting on the hardwood floor. Breathless. Unable to move.
I suddenly felt more alone now that I knew I wasn’t. The…
Read the full article here
