“Have you ever wanted to find your real parents?”

It’s a question that, as an adopted person, I’ve gotten more than a few times through the years, sometimes in November, National Adoption Month, which gets people thinking about things like this.

“What do you mean, real parents?” I ask back.

“You know, the biological ones.”

“Oh,” I say with a nod. Then I clarify. “My birth parents are important, but they are not my real parents.”

Real parents are the ones who pick you up with a hug when you fall down. They never forget your birthday even though they weren’t there for it. They teach you how to skate, and ride a bike, and drive a car. They’re the ones who make Christmas special so you’ll never forget the magic. They sing car karaoke and make clandestine runs for ice cream. They say goodnight with a kiss and call you out when you deserve it. They tell you the boy who broke up with you is a no-good idiot, and they cheer you on for your first job interview. My real dad gave up his NHL playing career in order to adopt me.

Real parents are the ones who are there. Making real sacrifices and real connections. Over all the years.

Real is more than DNA. More than nine months. More than the names on a birth certificate.

Have I ever wanted to find my real parents?

No. Because I already have.