Every journey starts with a first step. A decision, really, to take that first step. To metaphorically move one foot in front of the other. That first step for me was taken on March 10, 2011. It was a cold, overcast, dreary Saturday morning when I typed the words “Patras orphanage” into the search bar. Life is full of unexpected journeys, and this was not my first one.

The past six months had been so difficult. Shirley, my wife of 24 years, had passed away, suddenly, but not unexpectedly, the previous September. We both knew she was sick. Having been a certified nurse’s aide in the home health care field for many years, she knew her prognosis. There is no cure for Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD). I knew that, too. What I didn’t know was how soon it would take her. She knew, though, and as I look back, there were signs.

Shirley’s death left a void in my life and also gave me time to think about other things, like my own life and where it began. I hit “enter” on the keyboard that Saturday morning in March and that’s when everything changed. The first entry came up and was about the Skagiopouleio Orphanage. Was this the orphanage? My orphanage? I clicked on the second entry and it was there I found an article from April 13, 1996, published in the New York Times entitled “Tales of Stolen Babies and Lost Identities: A Greek Scandal Echoes in New York.” The article told the stories of Maxine Deller, and others, in their search for the truth behind their adoptions from Greece in the 1950s. All came from the orphanage in Patras.

“Holy shit! Could I have been a part of this?” I said out loud to no one. I had never heard of this and I quickly became obsessed. The rest of that day was spent searching. There was a website (no longer in existence) published by a Greek adoptee regarding his experiences as an adoptee. On it were pictures of the Patras Municipal Orphanage, an old, decrepit building, long since torn down.