I'm a well-adjusted male adult adoptee who has always known of his adoptive status. It never bothered me and I was always open about it throughout my life--as far as I can recall, I never felt "odd" or "different" and I was never mocked or ostracized for it. Under those circumstances, I never had much curiosity about my origins or birth parents and could have lived my whole life not knowing and been fine with it. Flash forward a few decades and I get a letter from the adoption agency asking if I can be contacted by my birth mother. I was initially reluctant, and more than a little suspicious, but eventually agreed, and we exchanged first letters and pictures, then emails, then phone calls, and then we finally met. It was a surreal experience, to say the least. Now we have a good relationship and maintain steady, although not terribly frequent, contact. I am her only child and now, through me, she has two grandchildren (who have accepted the whole situation with typical childish innocence). I'm a fiction writer by hobby (and profession--I'm in advertising), and I got to thinking, while MY story wasn't particularly intriguing or ridden with conflict, it could serve as the basis of a story that WAS. So I wrote one
, as a means of coping with the whole ordeal. While therapeutic, it's pure fiction, with barely a hint of my own experience in there, but if you like humorous suspense in the vein of Carl Hiaasen, you might get a kick out of it. To say the least, it will probably make any other adult adoptee's experience seem like a cake walk by comparison.
After 40 years, Dorsey Duquesne believes he's finally found his mother. Too bad she keeps trying to kill him.