I was adopted as an infant, and my adoptive parents were always upfront about it.  Growing up, I never felt like the "adopted" child. I was never treated differently, and my parents loved me as though I'd been born to them.

I never felt the need to find my biological mother, although I did have questions. "Who do I look like?" "Does the woman who gave me up for adoption ever think about me?" 

After a friend had given birth to twins after years of struggling with infertility and after adopting her first child, I asked her if it felt different knowing that the twins were actually hers. She told me that no matter who gave birth to her daughter, the minute they put that baby in her arms, she was hers.

When I had my son, I was so excited when people told me that he had my eyes, or that he looked like me. Finally I looked like someone!

When my adoptive parents both died of cancer, I began to wonder if there were diseases that ran in my biological family. Should I worry about cancer or heart disease? Then, I opened the envelope my mother gave me before she died. It was an adoption decree with the name of my birth mother in it. I thought it would be so easy. Wrong.

The name of my birth mother was printed wrong on the decree, with her name divided as though her middle name was part of her first name. My librarian friend was able to research names and genealogy and yearbooks to find this birth mother of mine. Finally, after months of searching for even the slightest clue, my friend called me. "I found her," she said.

My heartbeat pounded through my ears. A flood of emotions rushed through me. I felt dizzy.

On May 29, I mailed a letter to my birth mother. As I let go of the envelope into the mailbox, I knew  I couldn't change my mind. Then my own questions and doubts surrounded me. "What if she rejects me? What if she doesn't respond? What if she really did just not like or want me? What am I doing?"

A few days later, the call came. It was my biological sister, calling on behalf of my birth mother. I found out that my birth mother was alive, and that I had three sisters and two brothers.

Although I've gained some answers, and gained a new relationship with another family, I will always consider myself the daughter of the parents who stayed up with me all night when I was sick. The parents who put up with me during my teenage years. The parents who always cheered me on. 

The last note I got from my mother before she died was on a card that my church gave me for Pastor Appreciation Sunday. "Proud to be your mother," she wrote. "Love always, Mom."

Right back at you, Mom. Proud to be your daughter.