by Tracey Cozby

Created on: July 15, 2008

I am adopted. I've always known that my parents did not give birth to me. They may not have given birth to me but they gave me a life. While growing up there was always that small nagging curiosity in the back of my mind "Who were my biological parents?". How I wish I had never taken the steps to find out.

When I was 19 I made the decision to look for my biological mother. After just a few letters and phone calls I found her. She was living in Texas near my grandfather and my older sister. Calls were made and then I flew to Texas to spend 2 weeks with the family I never knew. I fell in love with my sister on the spot. Looking at her is like looking in the mirror. Spitting images. Someone even confused me for her. To this day I still have a relationship with my sister and it is one I cherish. My relationship with the woman who gave birth to me faltered from day one. She hardly spoke to me much less spent any time with me. Her nights were spent at a local lodge drinking, smoking and partying. Her days were spent either sleeping and maybe going to work at the local convenience store.

I had so many questions for her. Where was my father? Who was he? Does he know about me? These were just a few questions that I got slight answers to. She evaded so much and I never really got complete answers from her. She said that my father was one of two men. Lovely. Once she looked at photos of me from Jr. High she said that without a doubt I was Gene's child and she had no clue where he was. That was it. Nothing about helping me find him or giving me any other information about the man who helped in creating me. The rest of the visit was spent with my grandfather, sister and nephew. She just did not have time for me. While it hurt me, I realized that maybe the pain of giving me up for adoption was just too much for her to handle. I can now safely say, twenty two years later, that is so far from the truth.

My grandfather passed away when I was 27. I was heavily pregnant with my first child when I found out. I had gone over to my adoptive parents house to visit with them and they said "Donna called." I immediately picked up the phone to call her. It was this phone call where I learned that the man who wanted to raise me had passed away. The man who loved me even though he didn't know me. I was heartbroken. I would not be able to get to know this kind hearted and loving man. My first words to Donna were "When is the funeral? I'll be there." The words she spoke back to me haunt my

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