I don’t know if it’s pregnancy hormones, or just me having too much time on my hands again to think, but I have been really stuck these last few days on the thoughts of my biological family. For some reason, I am more saddened lately about the thought that I have family out there in the world who may not know that I ever existed, and for those who knew that I existed, I will likely never have the opportunity to get to know. I will never have answers to the questions that I have about myself, whether they be silly or significant, like, who do I get my singing voice (I think it’s pretty good) from? Who do I get my drive for perfection from? I could make pages and pages of the questions that I have. I chalk it up to being an adoptee who will soon be having a child of my own. I want to pass on at least some of the answers to these questions to her, whether she gets a particular interest or trait from Ryan or me. Yet, like me, Olivia is going to be missing out on knowing things about herself because I don’t know them about me. The more that I think about it, this is what is upsetting to me. It is one thing for me, as one generation, to not know things about myself, but it is another thing for my child, and then in future generations, her child, to not know those things.