Chosen, Yet Searching

Chosen, Yet Searching

by Madi A. 01/2026

This is a story that many who are adopted and their families will recognise themselves in. It’s ready.

Growing up, I always knew I was adopted. I knew I belonged, yet I often felt like the odd piece of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

Both of my parents came from French Canadian Catholic backgrounds. My mother’s roots trace back to the rural village of Ripon, Quebec, while my father’s family originated along the East Coast, in Caraquet, New Brunswick and in Northern Ontario. Our heritage was shaped by strong French Canadian traditions, anchored in faith, close-knit community, music, Chanson à répondre, traditional dishes, and a deep sense of Québécois and Gaspésien identity.

I remember when my parents brought my little brother home in early 1965. The story was that he had been chosen from a catalogue. I took that quite literally. I spent hours flipping through the Sears and Eaton’s catalogues, studying each page carefully, convinced I might spot our pictures. We were both chosen, and we felt privileged and very grateful not to have grown up in an orphanage or foster home.

That fall, my mother and I went to St. Dominique School to register for kindergarten. I was proud that I knew all my personal information and eager to share it with my soon-to-be teacher. I wasn’t sure when it was appropriate to mention that I was adopted, but when I did, she seemed a little taken aback. It wasn’t information typically gathered during registration. Her curiosity led her to ask questions about my home, my parents, and how I felt about being adopted. She told me I was very lucky that my parents had chosen me to be part of their family.

And she was right.

We lived in a modest home, one filled with love, stability, creativity, laughter, and warmth that lasted nearly sixty years. My parents had impeccable taste and always sought quality in everything they owned.

My bedroom was small, but I never lacked anything. My father, an accountant by profession, loved woodworking. He enrolled in a night class at the local school and built my dresser, desk, and captain’s bed, complete with generous storage. That bedroom set, made just for me, became one of my most cherished possessions. My mother ensured every detail was polished with quality bedding, coordinated curtains, and a sense of style that made each room feel intentional and complete.

In the early 1960's, my parents purchased a lot in West Arm Nipissing, on an island. My maternal grandparents owned lot 1, and we were on lot 2 of Musky Bay Island. With help from relatives, my father built the cottage himself. Accessible only by boat, it welcomed us from spring thaw to fall freeze. Every weekend getaway and summer vacation spent there became another anchor of stability in my life, one that endured for over fifty years.

Still, I always wondered where I came from.

In the past, adoption laws required very little information to be shared. It wasn’t until the 1980's that all adoptees could request non-identifying information from agencies. This included details about birth parents (race, religion, health, physical traits, education, family background, hobbies) but no names or contact information.

When I finally received my document, I read it over and over again. Each word felt like a potential key, a clue that might unlock the truth of my biological family. Once a year, usually around my birthday, I would take out the letter from CAS and read it again, carefully, deliberately, always wondering if I had missed something.

A word.

A phrase.

A hint.

It became a ritual. Year after year, nothing changed. No new details. Only the persistent hope that one day the puzzle would be complete.

Over time, I connected with birth mothers, people who were adopted, and hopeful adoptive parents. I learned that family existed in many forms beyond the traditional definition.

In the late 1990, while watching a talk show about adoption reunions, I was introduced to the Canadian Adoption Registry. I registered immediately. The stories I read were astonishing. One by one, people in my circle began finding matches, connections long thought impossible. I even helped friends and family members to register their information. Each successful reunion felt miraculous.

In early 1997, while checking the registry, I came across a listing: a family searching for an adopted boy with my little brother’s date and place of birth. Within a month, he was reunited with his biological parents and extended family. It was a fairy tale ending, and I was so proud to have played a part in it.

In 1999, a friend and I, somewhat amused and curious, visited a psychic. We didn’t really believe in it; it was meant to be fun. Careers, love, children, all the usual questions. At the very end, I asked, “I’m adopted. Do you see anything about that?”

After turning a few cards and reading my palm, she said she had good news and bad news. “Unfortunately,” she said, “both of your biological parents have passed away. But a sibling will reach out. Be patient.” Those words stayed with me.

On August 11, 2003, my cellphone rang while I was driving home from work. “Hello, this is Alice McDonald from the Canadian Adoption Registry. Do you know who I am?” I pulled over immediately. Then came the most powerful words of all. “I think we have a match.”

After a long pause, I gasped. “Yes. You can share my information. Give me fifteen minutes to get home.” I barely made it through the door before my phone rang again. It was my sibling.

Within hours, we had a lifetime to catch up on. Dates, memories, questions, there was never enough time to say everything. My biological mother passed away in 1995, my father in 1997. My sister was six years younger. She had lived in British Columbia before moving to southern Ontario. We each had three children. I had two boys and a girl; she had three boys. We both had sons named Eric. We laughed at the coincidence.

We laughed, cried, compared lives, asked questions, shared stories, over and over again. At 5 a.m., we were still on the phone, knowing we had to work in a few hours, yet unwilling to let the call end.

The next day, I remember telling my story over and over again to co-workers, family, and friends. When I woke up that morning I came to a realisation.

I am a sister.

I am a sister-in-law. 

I am an aunt.

I had a living maternal biological grandmother of Irish descent, living in Saskatchewan. I had five maternal uncles and one aunt, along with many cousins scattered mostly across Western Canada and Southern Ontario.

On my paternal side, I had six uncles and seven aunts, and countless cousins, most of them living in Eastern Canada, in La Haute-Gaspésie.

My biological parents met in Elliot Lake, a Northern Ontario community, in 1960. In March of 1961, they separated, and my father returned to his family village of Ste-Anne-des-Monts, Quebec. Shortly afterwards, my mother found out she was pregnant. She gave birth in December 1961, and given her circumstances at the time, made the heartbreaking decision to place me for adoption.

My parents reunited shortly thereafter and were married in December 1963. They moved west of Canada and had my sister four years later. 

My sister and I stayed connected through MSN, emails, photos, documents, and frequent phone calls. The resemblance between us was undeniable.

Just as we were getting acquainted, the Ontario blackout of 2003 began. For three entire days, we had no communication. It felt unbearably unfair, after a lifetime of waiting, to be silenced again.

Finally, we planned to meet. I live in Northern Ontario, and my sister lives in Southern Ontario.  

On August 22, 2003, we reunited in a park along Lake Ontario in Mississauga. Two families coming together. I travelled 435-kilometres south to a familiar place where I have visited friends who live within kilometres of where my sister, my biological family, and relatives lived and worked.  

In the spring of 2004, my sister and I travelled west for the first time. I met my maternal grandmother. That summer, we returned and met most of my maternal relatives.

It wasn’t until the summer of 2007 that I travelled east, where I met most of my paternal relatives.

That piece of the puzzle, the one that never quite fit, had finally found its place.

In 2009, when adoption records were opened, I requested my full file from CAS. Everything confirmed what I had discovered since 2003.

It has been almost twenty-three years since the day we met. My sister and I have shared many milestones, family dinners, reunions, and countless memories. Now it's time to make up for what was once delayed.

Our next life chapter can be a book titled:

Serendipity: My sister Darla and I

2003 08 22 Lake Ontario

1980s: The resemblance was undeniable