“Searching for The Mother I Never Knew”

After I discovered the adoption letter, nothing felt the same again.

Though my adoptive parents had always treated me with love, I could no longer see them the same way. A wall had grown between us — not by their hands, but from the wound inside me. Whenever I made a mistake and they tried to correct me as any parents would, I took it personally. Their words burned. Their guidance felt like rejection. It wasn’t them — it was the broken lens I had begun to see the world through.

I became more closed off, more emotionally fragile.

At school, I was a quiet girl, withdrawn. I wore glasses, looked a bit like a nerd, and didn’t have many close friends. I wasn’t popular. I wasn’t confident. I carried a heavy sadness that no one could see. An ordinary girl on the outside — but inside, I was silently bleeding.

Once or twice, I gathered the courage to talk to my adoptive parents about what I had discovered. But the conversations never truly opened. They felt like unfinished pages — hanging, unresolved. We never spoke openly, never reached a deeper truth together. So, I kept most of my pain to myself.

As I got older — in my early twenties — the longing to find my roots grew louder. I couldn’t silence it anymore. I wanted to know: Who are they? Where do I come from? Why did they give me up?

I travelled back to Cianjur, the town where I was born. I went alone, and once with a close friend. I went straight to the hospital where I was supposedly born — but found out it had moved in 1984, and all records from before that year were lost or unknown. My name wasn’t in their archives. It was like I had never been born there at all.

I also went to government offices, tried asking around. Nothing. No answers. No trail.

All I had was that adoption letter. A name. A fingerprint. And questions that kept echoing inside me.

Then, something happened.

One night, I had a dream. A vivid one. In it, a woman appeared to me — a village woman in simple clothes. Her face was unclear, almost blurred, but I knew it was her.

She looked at me with gentleness and said:

“Hi Lia, this is me… your mother. Don’t worry, I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to see you.”

That was it. She faded.

I woke up in silence, but something inside me had shifted. I believe that dream was real — that she had come to me in spirit, perhaps before passing. She didn’t come to ask for anything. She came only to look at me once.

To see the daughter she gave away — and maybe, to say goodbye.

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This story is a part of my personal journey. Please do not copy or reproduce any part of it without permission. Sharing is welcome with proper credit and a link to this blog