“Dear Mom—I miss you!”

Thoughts of my birth mother were sublime. I never doubted that she existed—even though I had never met her or knew her name. I recorded each pivotal event and critical stage in my life and described how I felt in a letter simply addressed to ‘Dear Mom’. The process of assembling and organizing these letters into a single coherent source inspired me to write the book Adoption Detective: Memoir of an Adopted Child. 

Chapter 4 – Bonding. Birth parents Bruno Rossi and Rebecca Meyer were officially pardoned and released by the church and state of all moral responsibility. They would never know anything about the destiny of their child or if a family living in a foreign country would adopt her. They wouldn’t even know her name. All legal connections with their child had been as coldly and skillfully severed as the cutting of the umbilical cord.

Dear Mom, I cried when you left me. Why didn’t you hold me, kiss me, or say good-bye? Is there something wrong with me? I have a basic need to nurse from your breast and be cuddled, hugged, and cooed. Instinctively, I need you for sustenance, comfort, and warmth. Wide-eyed and hungry, I look into the eyes of every stranger and hope it is you. I wish I had your arms around me to reassure me that I am safe and secure. I want to smell your skin, your breath, and your hair. I want to hear your calming and soothing voice to let me know everything is all right.

On the first day of my life, you cast me aside as an illegitimate orphan. I am a displaced person, but war, pestilence, disease, or human tragedy did not cause my circumstances. I was simply born at a time that was inconvenient to others. I hope that—someday and somewhere—somebody will love me. I am only a baby. Deep in my core brain, the separation from you at birth has altered my consciousness and changed me forever. Over time, as I grow older and become more aware of my surroundings, I will forever retain a deep sense that I am missing something. That something is you. In the future, there will be nobody to tell me about you or anything at all about my past. I have no way of ever knowing you or my father. I will have no roots, biological family, or information about my beginnings. I will not know my grandparents or have any sense of my real place in the world. I will not know the geographic parts of the world where you came from or your nationality. I will have no way of knowing your personal habits and family customs or learning about your occupation, interests, and hobbies. I will not know what kinds of foods you like, your musical preferences, or talents. I won’t even know your name or what you look like. Love, Baby

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