Thank you to Anne Smith for sharing her story.
My story begins in 1973, the same year the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Roe v. Wade that women had a constitutional right to abortion before fetal viability. That same year, my mom found out she was pregnant—with me.
She could have chosen abortion. But she didn’t. And for that, I’m forever thankful.
My mom was 41, sick, and trying to manage a difficult life. My father had been in and out of jail since he was a teen, a repeat offender with a dark history of harming women and girls. When I was born on October 25, 1973, he was in jail.
My grandfather had passed at age 68, and my grandma was left to care for my mom on her own. She was terrified that when my father got out, he would come looking for me. She knew she had to protect me. That’s how I ended up in a closed adoption.
Two years after I was born, my father did come looking—but he was too late. I was already gone. My name had been changed. There were no records he could access.
My adoption became official when I was three years old.
I always knew I had been placed for adoption out of love. My adoptive parents were missionaries. I spent 5½ years of my childhood living off and on in the jungles of Bangladesh. When I turned 13, I remember being there and feeling this deep ache to meet my biological family. I knew it wasn’t possible at the time, so I prayed a prayer that’s never left me. I told God, “If You ever let me meet them, I’ll make sure each one knows about You.”
That prayer sat quietly in my heart for years.
Then, in October 2019, my husband surprised me with an Ancestry DNA test. A few weeks later, the results came in—and everything changed.
I matched with relatives on both sides of my biological family. On my mom’s side, cousins had been searching for me. On my dad’s side, I was matched to a nephew who hadn’t even known I existed. We’ve since had many meaningful conversations, and I’ve had chances to share God’s love with them—just like I promised in that prayer as a teenager.
The biggest moment of all came when I finally met my birth mother. She had no idea I was coming. I’ll never forget telling her who I was and seeing her face light up. We got to spend eight beautiful months together before God called her home.
During those months, I made her a video picture frame filled with snapshots of my life, set to the gospel songs she loved. My cousins helped make it special. She had been in and out of hospitals and nursing homes most of her life, but with the right care, she could live independently. And during our visits, she was vibrant, joyful, and so proud to see me.
Our last visit was on her birthday. We brought cake and presents and celebrated with her and her friends. When it was time to leave, she didn’t want to say goodbye—and neither did I. I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see her. She passed away on August 20, 2020.
We buried her in South Bend, Indiana. The day of the burial, my husband and I arrived early and decided to drive around the cemetery. It felt strangely familiar. I asked him to stop the car so I could walk.
As I stepped out and walked to his side of the car, I looked down and saw the gravestones of my adopted grandparents and my adopted sister.
Then I looked across the road.
Just opposite their graves, workers were preparing another burial.
It was for my biological mom—and right beside her were my biological grandparents, aunts, and uncles. My husband looked at me and said, “Only God could do something like this.”
That was the moment I knew: I had come full circle.
Now, I stay connected with both sides of my biological family. On my mom’s side, we meet 3–4 times a year. On my dad’s side, about once a year. I treasure the memories we’re making. Every moment reminds me that I was wanted—that I am loved.
God’s hand has been on me my entire life. He gave me two families—and a story I never could have written on my own.
One day, I’ll write a book and call it Full Circle. Because that’s exactly what it is.
Image: Anne and her birth mother