If he’d done this to a stranger, what might have happened to me?

Growing up in Toronto, I have always known that I was adopted. The knowledge that I wasn’t my adoptive parents’ flesh and blood offered the comfort that my future was not constrained by their life choices or personalities.

In my late teens, I began to search through municipal records and government databases to find information on my biological family. From the agency that oversaw my adoption, I received an excerpt of my records. I learned my mother was English and my father Scottish, and they were working class. With this start, my evenings, weekends and holidays were consumed by my search.

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