At forty-eight years old, I was sent for a breast biopsy. For most women this alone is a nerve-wracking experience, but for an adoptee it produces layers of complicated emotions. My health issues compelled me to launch a search into my closed adoption, something I’d delayed doing for years. While I evaluated search avenues, I resumed an old habit: journaling. And as I recorded the crazy twists and turns of my adoption probe, I toyed with the idea of eventually writing a book.