I was adopted as an infant.

Two wonderful people chose me to be part of their family. I had a beautiful life with loving parents, and I couldn’t have had better role models, felt more loved, or loved anyone as much as I loved them. I always viewed them as my “true” parents. When I was very young, and they had told me I had been adopted, they said they had chosen me, out of all the other babies, at the baby store. I felt so special then, and still do today.

They both are gone now and I miss them dearly.

I had never given much thought to who my biological parents were. I always felt it didn’t matter, that their pairing—and my conception—was only a biological accident involving sperm and an unprotected egg.

But then, about 6 years ago I wanted to find some information on my family heritage. This was driven more by my young adult sons, frankly. I wanted them to have some info on their ancestry, as well as to not have to wonder about what health-related concerns they may have inherited from unknown genetics. All my life I had always had to draw a huge X across the “family medical history” sections when filling out the paperwork at doctors’ offices.