Too many lives. Too many stories. Not enough truth. A lifetime of silent tears. On some days it is completely overwhelming.

I was born in Methoni, Messinia, Greece, in 1955, the second daughter of Evangelia and Emmanuel Diktakis. It is a name well known in Crete for the celebrated Captain Emmanuel Diktakis, known for his bravery, his devotion to family, and love for his homeland. In an epic battle to lead a fight for Cretan land and birthright in 1840, he was slaughtered in the hills and beheaded. His legacy lives on in my birth father’s name; he is my ancestor, and part of who I am.

I was not an orphan.

My birth father was in the Greek army, serving in the prefecture near Ioannina. My birth mother, Evangelia, was from a small village not far from there. Apparently, there were many suitors who might have shared a life with her, but she was paired with my birth father by her brother. He was the one who ultimately made a very important and personal decision for her. It was a proxenia, an arranged marriage. She had no choice in the matter, and so she left her family and returned to Methoni with her new husband.

I was born exactly 14 months after my sister, Sophia. As is traditional, because she was the first daughter, she was named after our father’s mother. I was named for my adoptive mother’s mother, which perhaps is also traditional. I wonder what name my birth parents would have given me. Certainly, I had a name in the first three months prior to my adoptive mother’s arrival in Greece. It is so distressing that no one can tell me what it was.

I find it difficult to believe that Evangelia had six pregnancies after giving birth to me. Knowing this, I cannot even begin to understand the logic in giving me away. Again, I wonder what hold my adoptive mother’s cousin, George, had over them. The story goes that George coerced my birth father, and that he, in turn, coerced my birth mother to give me away. Was her desire to give me a better life greater than the pain of relinquishing her child to a stranger?