Physical violence and aggression and confrontation are what I tell people must not enter my space. Peace, yes. Compassion, yes. Violence, no. Alcoholism and drug abuse, no.

And while I number loved ones close to me who are afflicted with these diseases and wish they could be a part of my life, they and I understand that it cannot be because the risk of damage is too great. I have seen what they can do.

As an adoptee I recognize many character traits within myself that many of us carry. Some I categorize as strengths: resiliency, ability to accept change, a very unconditional and giving nature. Some are weaknesses: inability to establish deep relationships with people (usually out of that primal fear of "rejection"), an inability to trust or know who to trust, and a somewhat loose and casual sense of "family."

I have also heard the anguish of adoptees still burning with the desire to fashion an identity. The question languishes in all of us. Some made a conscious choice to bury the question. Others carry it like a stake in their heart, blundering blindly into the search arena with no plan of how to approach their birth parents, should they find them. This is a path to be taken with caution.

While many natural mothers like myself desire reunion with their lost children, still others prefer to live in the cloak of secrecy. That is their choice. I never wished to hound my own natural parents. Ireland especially is a country to be approached with caution when seeking adoption roots.

This is a nation where divorce was illegal until 1995 and the stigma of unwed motherhood was a profound one at the time of my birth. I have heard that Irish birth mothers as a whole are most anxious to make reunion with their children, but must be carefully contacted.

Many were victims of physical abuse themselves when angered fathers or boyfriends or even brothers discovered their untimely pregnancies. So I slowly and gently conducted my search, spinning a thread of connectivity across the Atlantic that my natural parents could follow should they choose.

With the advent of the Internet, I was able to make so many good friends and connections both here and in Ireland who have provided immeasurable help. The many Internet mailing lists and groups I've joined and started in support of the adoption triad and Magdalene Laundries have also provided me with an incredible network of friends and fellow travelers.

In October 1996, ABC's 20/20 presented a piece on the exportation of Irish babies for adoption to the US called The Lost Children of Ireland. I permitted the use of my passport photo as part of their montage work as well as some old home movies my dad took of my arrival at JFK in New York. The story chronicled the intensely painful saga that is adoption and relinquishment in the Ireland of the '40's, '50's and '60's, and the interviews they did with several anguished natural mothers were just heart-rending. It is a highly charged emotional issue and as Americans, we need to be sensitive to it and allow individuals the freedom to find their history in this country as well. I hoped against hope that maybe Josephine saw the story and would recognize that frightened, elfin face 20/20 frequently panned in on. Maybe...

As for Erin Maureen, I spun the same thread. In October of 1996, I wrote to Catholic Social Services and received a lovely reply, a very descriptive letter about Erin's adoptive family (her parents were both college-educated, of Irish descent, just as I had asked), her older adopted brother, and about her upbringing in general. It appeared life has been very good to her. And better than that — it appeared she had adoptive parents who support her and her brother's right to know their heritage and their backgrounds. They were, as stated in the letter, open to contact and reunion and even went so far as to recontact Catholic Social Services in 1994!  It was hard to believe our paths had already crossed. At that time, Erin's mother reported she was well, happy, and a good student preparing to go to college. They wondered if I had perhaps updated my own information or desired contact. Moreover, they had not only given her the letter I wrote, but they gave it to her when she turned 15 (in 1993), instead of 18! What more could I ask for? The social worker's letter also helped me restore some lost memories: I could not remember the exact date I signed relinquishment. Some inner shock absorber obviously let me forget that. I had forgotten that I had also written a letter to these unknown people and to Erin. The social worker wrote "Mrs. became teary as she read your letter."

I replied immediately to this non-identifying letter — seven pages' worth of updated information on myself, my children, etc. Another letter for Erin. I even faxed it all the very next day, sending the hard copy along regular mail. Soon, I heard from the social worker again. This time she told me that my letters had been sent and that if I wished to take this the "next step further," I must first go through what they call "readiness" counseling. I agreed to meet with a social worker locally at a Catholic Social Services office in Cocoa, Florida. It actually felt good to talk to a somewhat objective observer about my feelings from so long ago. She listened well and was interested and happy about the possibility of reunion.

Then came the kicker.

After all the necessary paperwork had been submitted to CSS in Philadelphia, the social worker there informed me that I must pay a $400 fee to them for their "services." HUH? I was told that because I initiated contact (never mind the fact that my daughter and her adoptive parents had contacted CSS some two years before me), I must cover the cost of a search — a search through a file cabinet, they mean — administrative fees, and for both my one hour and my daughter's two of readiness counseling! I had been told by other adoptees and birthparents who had danced the CSS waltz to plead poverty in this event. So I did. I wrote a stirring letter to the social worker's administrative supervisor appealing to the good graces of Catholic Charities. They relented and we agreed on $50 as a fair charge for those minimal services they had rendered...a few mailed letters and several phone calls.

Next I was informed that I should be receiving a letter from my daughter and then, in the social worker's own words, "We'd be on our own." I took this to mean that the letter would include her full name and address and that further contact would be our decision, as it should be. Nay, nay. How wrong I was! I did receive the letter. I received it February 21, 1997, on a Friday. It blew me away. It was neatly computer-typed, formal in the way only nerves can create, and definitely written by my daughter! And she signed it with a heart symbol and "Love, Kerry." Her name was Kerry! How beautiful...the county next to Cork, where I was born!

Better yet was the photo enclosed. Kerry, her adoptive mother, father and brother all assembled at her high school graduation in June 1996. She was absolutely lovely! Words cannot describe the first impact of seeing a child you have not held or seen since the day they were born. All prejudice aside, this child was STILL gorgeous! I could see a definite strong resemblance to me, but there was an uncanny resemblance to her paternal birth grandmother as well. Written on the back in Kerry's hand were all their names — first only. This entire package — priceless to me — had been enclosed in a notesheet from the social worker, with her pithy words...something to the effect, "Here you go! Enjoy!" Great. Now I had been tantalized by a lovely picture and letter and knew she was now Kerry — but Kerry who?

So I got busy that night. My boyfriend at the time, John, and I combed the 'net seeking out anything student or college related in the Philadelphia area. One tantalizing clue: Kerry had written that she did want to meet, and mentioned that she would be able to do so during her spring break, which was scheduled for March 1-10. A fellow netizen and natural mother told me that mostly the Catholic, private and smaller universities in Philadelphia were breaking at that time, the state schools to follow the week after. So, onward we ploughed. We also checked out AOL's service, where members' profiles could be searched, using "Kerry" and her date of birth, 5/11/78, as keywords. A profile was returned on a Kerry Anne (last name), student, waitress, and florist, interested in art and sculpture and born 5/11. My heart began to beat faster. I sent an e-mail to this member against all hope and don't remember sleeping at all that night. I e-mailed Kerry's paternal birth family members — her grandfather and aunts — to let them know how close we were. They were all ecstatic and supportive. One of Kerry's birth aunts and one of my closest friends from high school even supplied a digital image of her mother (Kerry's grandmother) in her graduation photo! The resemblance was eerie. John and I drove to my lab that night and scanned the precious graduation photo. Saturday was a blur.I read e-mails of support from friends far and wide. I paced. We continued reviewing profiles. I finally dragged myself off to sleep at some point; deep, dreamless sleep.

Sunday morning dawned clear and bright and I woke to John gently shaking me, telling me, "Mari, you've got an e-mail from an Elisa Barton in Philadelphia — it's about the AOL Kerry profile." 9:00 a.m. on a Sunday, and here I am reading e-mail.

Elisa, a wonderful natural mother "sister" who lives in the area near where I grew up outside Philadelphia, wrote a book of internet compilations called Confessions of a Lost Mother. She had been helping me over the weekend identify possible colleges Kerry might be attending, especially since Elisa herself taught at St. Joseph's University. Evidently Elisa had also been checking the AOL profiles and somehow came across a second profile for what appeared to be the same Kerry Anne (last name), only this one had provided more information in her member description. We were fairly certain this was it. A quick check of possible John (last name)s (I knew her adoptive dad's first name from her photo) led us to one in Fort Washington, an area less than one mile from the home I grew up in. This had to be impossible...how could she have been raised so close to me?

After continued frenzied pacing, hemming and hawing, it was finally decided John (my John, that is) would try the Fort Washington phone number. He shooed me out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him, claiming he'd be too nervous if I stood there while he made the call. Some thirty minutes and many cigarettes later, John finally emerged from the bedroom, mouthing, "It's her mom, Mary Louise.and she's a PEACH!" He handed the phone to me.

To this day I don't know how or why the goddess smiled down with such favor, but Mary Louise, Kerry's adoptive mother is, in fact, a peach. The sweetest, warmest human being greeted me on the phone as if she had found her own long-lost sister. We spoke for quite some time, comparing notes, answering questions, sharing our utter amazement at all of this. As it turned out, Kerry actually attended the same Catholic high school I did...in fact, she had many of the same teachers as me. As Mary Louise continued describing Kerry and her life for me, I was absolutely stunned by all the coincidences. We both were. She immediately wanted to know "where the art came from." Evidently Kerry had early on exhibited unusually prodigious artistic talent. I grinned from the inside out. Her parents fostered this ability throughout her life and I was thrilled to learn she was then a Graphics Design major at Philadelphia College of Textile and Science!

Mary Louise also told me that she had watched the 20/20 broadcast The Lost Children of Ireland never realizing she was looking at her own daughter's natural mother. However, she did admit that while watching it, she got the eeriest feeling. Shortly after the broadcast in October, they received my follow-up information from Catholic Social Services, with plenty of identifying information blacked out! However, Mary Louise happened to notice that on one of my typed pages, the social worker had apparently missed a name — my married last name. They knew I lived in Florida and my last name was Steed. Ever intrepid, Kerry and her family had her adoptive brother Kevin, recently employed as a police officer, check what he could using my last name and approximate age.

Unfortunately, without a first name or specific date of birth, the closest he could come was a 42-year old woman who had been convicted of two DUI's, one involving injuries, in Pensacola! As we spoke, Mary Louise informed me that Kerry was over at a friend's, but that her father John had been dispatched to fetch her. I told Mary Louise we would be out until early evening at a birthday celebration for my John, but I'd most certainly welcome Kerry's phone call after that.

At precisely 8:01 p.m. on February 22, 1997, my lovely daughter called me. John answered the phone and said he was floored by the very assured, poised voice at the other end: "Hi John. This is Kerry." After doing a mean Porky Pig impersonation himself, John weakly handed the phone to me. WOW. It was Kerry and life was good.

We talked endlessly, my then 10-year old, Jessica, taking copious notes at my side. We compared height, weight, looks, and even our horrible eyesight. And although this wonderful creature shared a great deal in looks with her birthfather and his family, spiritually, she was mine. Our thoughts and personalities could not have been more alike. She is a southpaw, like her birthdad, although she can write and draw with her right hand as well. Her eyes are even two different shades, as though her father and I each gifted her with one apiece...one darker brown, like mine, the other hazel, like her birthdad's and half-brother, my son, Alex.

We spoke for some two hours.I didn't want to let her go. But marvelously, because of the way her spring break would fall, we would get to meet! It turned out she had plans and a plane ticket to fly to west Florida and stay with her adoptive brother, Kevin. Kevin had moved from Philadelphia several months prior and was more than willing to drive Kerry over to our side of the coast. Over the next few weeks we made plans. I spoke with Kevin, Mary Louise again, then finally Kerry's dad John, as wonderful and gracious a person as Mary Louise. John and I booked Kerry and Kevin a hotel room close to us so they'd have the space and "grounding place" they'd need to process the emotions from this trip. All was set.

On Saturday, March 8, 1997 (my adoptive granddad's birthday), with mom a bundle of nerves and John and the children propping me up, we watched excitedly as Kerry and Kevin pulled up in front of our house. And for the first time in nearly nineteen years, I held my daughter in my arms again. My very first thought was that she smelled exactly as she did when I held her in my arms at birth...I would have been able to recognize her in a crowd on scent alone, it was that powerful. We hugged, we cried, we exclaimed how beautiful the other was...it was madness. I hugged Kevin and immediately christened him my "surrogate" birthson...he, too, seeks his natural mother and I have assured him that whatever the outcome, I will always be a "second mom" to him. He is an incredibly marvelous young man; handsome and confident.  I hope one day that he finds his natural mother. I am sure she would be proud and happy to claim him.

Even a long weekend was too short for all of us. We tried to squeeze every possible moment in. We went jet-skiing (Kevin brought his own Seadoo) on our intracoastal waterway, stayed up into the wee hours talking, until Kerry would have to drive a conked-out Kevin back to their hotel (fortunately, just across the road from us). We even celebrated that Sunday with a small gathering of close family and friends — all delighted to meet Kerry and welcome her into our family.

That final Monday was spent jet-skiing up by Kennedy Space Center, at Canaveral Shores, and drawing every last second. Kerry and my other two children and I romped in the surf and buried each other in the sand while John and Kevin jetted around out past the breakers. At one moment, I watched as Kerry, Jessica and Alex slowly walked from the surf back to our spot on the beach, stopping to look at shells or sand crabs. My heart burst from the sheer beauty of watching all three of my children together — the similarities so striking, despite differences in age. That Monday evening, Kerry and Kevin put off their departure as long as they possibly could, but it was heart-breaking when they finally did leave. Kerry cried all the way back to Fort Myers and I suffered the worst post-partum blues that I have ever known. What kept us going was the thought that now we could never be separated again...we knew who the other was and where we could be found. Deep peace and happiness began to flower within me. I cannot even begin to describe the healing and fullness reunion with Kerry has brought me.

It got even better in June of 1997 when I had the opportunity to spend vacation in Philadelphia and meet Kerry's family. We gathered at her parents while up there and I was overwhelmed by the unconditional love these wonderful people showered on my children and me. I was presented with a beautiful photo album containing pictures of Kerry from infancy on up to her formal high school graduation photo. I thought I would surely disintegrate. Unbelievably, Kerry's birth aunt Patty also found some old Polaroids she had taken when I gave birth to Kerry...photos of her lying in her bassinet in the nursery. I never even knew she had taken them! Since there were five prints, I presented two of them to Mary Louise and John, as their earliest photos of Kerry began when she was over a month old.

We also gathered again at a special dinner Patty and other close friends of mine from high school threw. Kerry and I were each given a rose corsage by Patty, which I now have pressed in my Kerry photo album. It was another healing chapter...seeing all these lovely, strong women again who were so important to me before, during, and after Kerry's birth. Together again, celebrating the young woman she now was...the age we all were when she was born. Pure magic.

Two of these terrific ladies even brought a little "souvenir" from one of our pre-Kerry experiences: from that long-ago evening when a few of us went out the night of what would have been our senior prom and decided to have dinner and dance across the river from Philadelphia in New Jersey. It was an Italian restaurant and night spot, small and not well-equipped, and they had no full liquor license, so you were required to bring your own. We purchased a bottle of wine on the way, but realized we had nothing to open it with after we had long since left the store. One of the girls pulled up in front of a fabric shop, much to our puzzlement. While we sat outside and scratched our heads, the ever-intrepid Dorothy emerged with a seam ripper. Yes, a seam ripper. It works quite well on cork!

Well, here we were nineteen years later and there was that damned seam ripper. They had held onto it all these years and presented it again at our dinner. I was overwhelmed. Our final gathering in June took place at another of Kerry's paternal birth aunts, Betsy's. It was yet another joyous, magical, healing experience...just about all of Kerry's birthfather's family was there, including birthdad himself and his new wife, expecting their first child later that month. It felt so good meeting him again — no sparks or magic, but nice and welcome. We passed several times during the party and just shook our heads in amazement! Our Kerry, all grown up and so beloved by all her new family. It was wonderful seeing Kerry's paternal grandparents again, too. They had been so kind to me throughout my pregnancy and I know they cared deeply about Kerry, her father, and I.

Incredibly, Mary Louise and John had brought all of Kerry's newborn things with them, carefully wrapped and protected all these years. There was the complete layette my mother had bought Kerry to leave the hospital in, the crude blanket I knitted in one of my first, early attempts at knitting. They even still had the rosary beads Kerry's paternal birth grandmother gave her — Mary Louise told us Kerry used these for her First Communion.

The only fly in the ointment on this visit was my own adoptive mother's reluctance to accept the reality of Kerry. She plainly told me during our stay with her that she was not "ready" to deal with all this. She still saw shame and guilt and old feelings of inadequacy on her part rearing up and just could not get past them. I respect her stand but know how much she needs to put aside the denial. Besides, she's missing out on so much that is wonderful and healing in all this. All in good time. I do feel badly that Kerry and her parents had wanted so much to meet her and thank her for ME. I hope that this will happen, I truly do. I know from Kerry's point of view — the adoptee's point of view — how hard it is to accept "rejection" on the part of any birthfamily member. And it burns me that my own mother could spurn her so. Especially since her "own" grandchildren, my two, are no more blood-related to her than Kerry, because of my adoptive status.

The balance of the experience, thankfully, has been incredible. Kerry and I now try to keep up with e-mail and phone calls, especially now that I've relocated back to the Philadelphia area. I tread lightly here because I certainly don't want to overwhelm this beautiful young lady with contact and bothersome mail/phone calls. She is still young and in flight. She needs the freedom to experience herself and not a crushing, cloying relationship with me.

In June 1999, Kerry made me a first-time grandmom when she gave birth to the beauteous and amazing Caylie, now 5. Then, in January 2002, the equally beauteous and amazing Ciara came along! And despite my "tender" age I am enjoying the role of grandmother.

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