As I was wandering around the Internet this evening, window shopping at the world’s information I stumbled upon the gripping essay All That We Have Chosen, written by Susan Ito. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but almost instantly I was hooked by the story, and even as the tune changed, and the story began to grow dark, I continued to read, completely engrossed in the pain and utter honesty that had been so humbly laid out before me.

I thought about my blood, the tablespoons of blood that lay in the glass tube in the clinic. Blood that was waiting to speak, its language translated by chemicals and microscopes. Blood of the birthmother I'd tracked down and met when I was twenty, who had been glad to know me, but wanted me to stay a lifelong secret. Blood of my invisible birthfather, whose name she wouldn't reveal to me. Blood of so many unknown relatives. This blood was going to inform me of the presence of another, of one whose face I would finally see, a child to name and hold.