Meeting my father's two sons took some doing.

First, as you read in a previous post, I had to get confirmation from my birth mother Irene Sargent Nielen that Roscoe Jepson was my father. At that meeting, she also told me my brothers' names: Bill and Peter. (For a thrill, here's the Roscoe Jepson page.) Irene also told me she thought Peter lived in Galveston, Texas, but Bill was still in San Diego.

That done, I called Peter and William Jepson in the San Diego phone book. No luck.

Then I had this very weird experience, which I now

  Does the whole process of healing the adoptee’s wound overwhelm you? Like, when will it ever end?
   I know I felt this way when I found my birth mother ’81 and my birth father in ’91. I’ve had a lot of time to heal, and I’ve come out on the other side, which makes me I feel like a veteran at it. If you’d like to read further, I’ll share 7 thoughts on healing.

It was late December 1981, at LAX.

My sister Cecilia just emerged from the disembarking tunnel. It was the first time I'd ever seen her in the flesh. She has the dark hair, but we both have the curls.

Four months earlier, I'd found her mother Irene, my birth mother, in Santa Ana, California, some ten miles from my home in Huntington Beach.  She was in a convalescent home home getting over something I can't remember. She told me I had a sister.  Cecilia was her name. I'd never had a sister. I was the only girl in a family with two brothers.