Like most adoptees, I thought about my mother while growing up. I wondered what she looked like; speculated about her interests and personality; and hoped that she thought about me as well. During my college years, I fantasized about her finding me. My version went something like this: knowing that I had reached adulthood, she would eagerly call the adoption agency to let them know she was ready to make contact with me. The agency would locate my adoptive parents, who in turn would let me know that my mother wanted to meet me. That was the perfect scenario in my young adult mind, because it removed responsibility from me as the finder, making me nothing more than the innocent one being found. My imaginary scenario, however, never played out. I briefly considered searching for her in my mid-20’s when I was pregnant with my first child, and then again a few years later as I approached 30. But each time those thoughts pushed their way into the forefront of my mind, I pushed them back down to the guarded place in my wounded adoptee psyche. The place that kept me relatively safe from my paralyzing fear of rejection, disruption, and disloyalty.