Since the age of ten, I’ve known that my mom and pa adopted me. But they — mostly my mom, as my pa is a little leery about personal topics in conversation — have been slow and sporadic about the details.
When I was ten, I learned I was adopted at age seven months from a Catholic orphanage and that I was half Chinese/ half Filipino.
When I was seventeen, I learned that my biological mother was a young college student who was employed by my biological father, a married businessman with two sons of his own.
When I was thirty-six — through my *sister* to whom our mom said what I’m about to write — I learned that I actually had and perhaps still have a full-blood younger brother, somewhere in the world (if not still in Taiwan).
Even though I’ve always felt this deep-seated void of I-don’t-know-how-to-describe-it but is actually common among adopted folks (but not all), I was always too afraid to ask for more details, feeling that I would be betraying my mom and pa, betraying their love for me, if I did.
I’m still waffling back and forth about this, even though I’m dying to confirm what she said to me sister was true… because she hasn’t said anything about it to me, yet.
But, I really ought to kn0w — at least for genetic purposes because I don’t know what the hell my family medical history is. One. Big. Blank. So, until I get the courage to ask my mom and pa (and perhaps do what some adopted adult children have done, which is go searching for their birth parents although, since my adoption was overseas in the early 1970s I don’t see anything coming out of it), I’m going to save and then cough up the money to 23andme and get my DNA analyzed.
At least that’s something.