It was sometime in the summer of the construction lot that I first discovered it might be possible to find out who my real parents were. I never called them that out loud; I knew that Mom and Dad would die if they heard me say that. But that’s what they were in my mind. My real parents. And I could maybe find them someday. The thought of it consumed me the summer I was ten years old.
And it consumed me every summer, every winter, every spring and fall for twenty more years, until the one morning I was in the john reading comics on my phone and it rang.