I was struck with such deep sorrow, such extreme sadness at the learning of the death of my Mother Dorothy 32 years ago. Dorothy, a woman who I never met, a woman who I knew nothing about. I didn’t know what she looked liked, what she liked. What made her happy? What made her sad? What brought her joy? What stole her joy? Yet I knew one thing, I would never get to meet her. I was grieving her. I am grieving her. I feel great compassion for her. I feel great gratitude for her. I am so thankful for her decision to give birth to me and thankful she did not choose abortion. I am proud of her. I love her! Yet I am mourning the loss of a reunion that would never happen and connection what would never be made. I will never look into her eyes. I will never hear her voice. I will never hold her hand. I will never hug her. I will never kiss her. I will never smell her scent. Dorothy’s death would be my greatest loss, my darkest hole, my own personal demon. Dorothy struggled in her lifetime with her sense of loss for me, her grief for me and now I am feeling the same feelings of loss for her. She lost a child, a union, part of herself. She never knew what became of me. She never knew if I was happy. She never knew if I was treated well. She never knew if I was even alive. She didn’t even know if I knew I was adopted. NOT knowing is agonizing.