Spending our wedding anniversary in Vail, Colorado, was stupendous. Following an exciting round of golf at Vail Country Club, surrounded by gorgeous views of the snowcapped Gore Mountain Range as the scenic backdrop, I relaxed with a double martini at the Sonnenalp. We ordered a fabulous Chateaubriand beef dinner for two, a bottle of Chianti Classico Reserva, and strawberry cheesecake for desert. It was a memorable, agreeable, fun filled day followed by a romantic evening. Life was good.
The following day, I awoke feeling refreshed and happy. Sunshine poured through my south-facing kitchen window and warmed my heart. I felt exceptionally blessed to be experiencing a genuine Colorado Rocky Mountain high. I poured myself a cup of coffee before walking out to water the flowers, smell the fresh air, and pick up the mail. In the middle of the bundle was a letter from the hospital where I was born. Four weeks had passed since I had written a letter inquiring about my birth. I tore open the letter and my eyes immediately started jumping all over the page, top to bottom and side-to-side, forcing me to reread each sentence three times to make sure I understood what it said. The letter provided unequivocal verification that Bruno Rossi and Rebecca Meyer were indeed my birth parents. I finally had the corroborative evidence I had been looking for from an independent intermediary. My self-esteem soared. It was a feeling that only an adoptee could experience, although some million dollar lottery winners and Olympic champions might disagree with me.
I was elated. I wanted to stand up and scream rapturous cheers. I was no longer adrift and disoriented or aimless. I knew who was responsible for my birth. I had written proof in my hand. There was nothing missing—no more genealogical bewilderment or confusion. I had legal confirmation of my roots; the mystery of my adoption was solved. I had succeeded as an adoption detective by solving my first and most important case. I was no longer an anonymous unidentified outcast trying to solve a whodunit detective novel. I imagined myself high on a mountaintop, singing and skipping through fields of wildflowers on a sunny day. I was ecstatically overjoyed knowing my birth parents were both alive and married to each other. I felt like celebrating wildly and excessively. I felt like dancing. Music was therapy for me. I turned on the radio and danced to Diana Ross’s old song, “My World Is Empty without You.”
In the middle of my euphoria, I realized I was more thankful to God than I had ever been before. I had expended a huge amount of emotional energy, but I felt blessed. My prayers had come true after all. I clung possessively to the letter as if it were a highly valuable treasure map because it confirmed the joyous fact that my birth parents were married. (Ref: Adoption Detective, Chapter 32—Confirmation, p. 216-217)
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I remember this feeling too . . . when I got the letter from Social Services that told me why my birth parents gave me up, and my nationality. When I found out my birthfather was all Greek, it really intrigued me. I learned where I got certain traits from . . . it gave me more of an identity AND more of a desire to meet them.