Personal Narrative: My Adoption

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The day I sent my daughter off to college was the day I realized what a poor father I was. All my children had turned out just like me. They were cold, emotionally distant people who would probably never find happiness. I was this way because I lost my parents at a very early age, but them, that was all my fault. I’d never been there for my children because I’d never had a father and I didn’t know how to be one. Which is not to say my adopted father was any bad, he made a sincere effort, but I knew he wasn’t my father so I never treated him like he was. The same goes for my mother. All my life, I was fixated on the loss of my parents. That’s a confusing phrase, because it normally means that they died, which wasn’t the case. I mean it literally.…show more content…
Naturally the authorities tried to find my parents and whoever had left me there, but to no avail. I was put up for adoption, and a family from New York adopted me a couple months later. To any outside observer, I did extremely well in my new home. I did very well in school, and I developed well physically and socially, but on the inside I was broken. The questions about my parents began to gnaw at me from the inside, and as time went on, only became more and more important to me. I had only one faint memory of my parents. I remembered being on the beach in the evening, as the sun was setting. I was walking, or stumbling along, when I fell over and started to cry. Immediately my mother ran over to me, and a dog, presumably ours, started to bark. My mother picked me and comforted me and I stopped crying. I can still remember the color of her blond hair in my eyes. That’s it. Nothing about my father at all, and nothing that could help to find…show more content…
I quit my job and I moved from me and my wife’s penthouse to a studio apartment. There I dedicated myself to finding my parents, if they were still alive. I went over every piece of information I had, I got a DNA test, I went out to Tulsa to see what I could find there. There was one seemly unrelated weird thing: I had been found at the hospital on April 20th, the day after the Oklahoma City bombing, just 100 miles from Tulsa. As desperate as it was, I had no other leads, so I followed it. It was well known that a nursery inside the federal building had been hit by the bomb, so I checked that out. I went to Oklahoma City to look at the records. Of the child casualties, only two had not been recovered. I found their parents and looked them up. Both couples lived in New York. I took a plane back to the city, but I had to choose which couple were my parents. By this time I was sure it was one of them. I had only one piece of information about my parents: my mother’s hair. Only one of the women was blonde. I took a cab from the airport straight to my parent’s address. And I knocked on the
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