Yet throughout my whole life, something always seemed as if it were missing.

I know what you’re thinking.
Me, a little orphan child, who has a nice adoptive family and all of the comforrts and security that goes along with such a life, but who still wishes to know who her real parents are so she could someday be reunited with them and live together forever and ever and ever in peace and harmony and happiness while knowing surely and certainly that her biological parents love her and resemble her and whatever else.
No, that wasn’t the true girl I was.
That wasn’t my situation and strain in life. Being adopted was something I could accept and live with, and I dare say even cherish, for I believed it added depth, mystery, and curiousity to my personality and perspective.

However, I reckon deep down inside of me I wish I had just been born into a regular family like everyone. As kind, warm, fuzzy, loving, caring, and doting as my dad was, I never really felt like I was his own. After all, I wasn’t.