I spent many hours online researching nomad gypsies, always curious about my biological roots, even though I was so grateful to Hashem for my beautiful family, and for blessing me every step of my wonderful life.

I married my husband, Nosson, in 2011 and two years later, after a long pregnancy and what felt like an even longer labor, birthed my daughter.

As soon as she was born and started wailing, my heart contracted. Finally, here was someone who belonged to me — my own flesh and blood. I was overwhelmed with love, which is why we named her Ahuva.

When Ahuva was 13 months old, my father, who had been suffering from leukemia for years, reached his final days. During what would be my last shift at his hospital bedside, I looked at the courageous figure who had been such a wonderful father. Tearfully, my heart overflowing, I told him, “Abba, it’s time to say goodbye. Thank you for raising me and loving me.”

“Esther, my princess, you’re welcome,” he answered weakly.

Even though we’d been prepared, his passing was a tremendous shock and sent me reeling with a pain I could never have anticipated. Looking for a distraction some months later, my mother suggested a trip to Hungary to explore my roots, something I’d always wanted to do. The time was right when Ahuva was two years old. I was expecting again and realized it was now or never. I could leave Ahuva with Nosson, who was between jobs at the time, and go with my mother.

My mother did all the preliminary arrangements. She found a contact in Hungary and e-mailed him for help getting a car, driver, and hotel. He turned out to be the very same man who had helped facilitate my adoption. He was intrigued and offered to show us around himself, and we took him up on his gracious offer.

As soon as I stepped off the plane, I felt a connection to the country. I turned to my mother and said, “Mommy, this is home.” I couldn’t tell you why; it was a feeling more than anything else. Perhaps my hopes and expectations had something to do with it.

The first place we went was the town of Nyírbátor, to the address printed on my birth certificate — the hospital in which I’d been born. My mother warned me not to get my hopes up — the building could have been since destroyed, repurposed, anything. As we neared the hospital, my face craning out the window, my mother thought aloud that we likely were traveling the very same streets my biological mother had traveled when she’d been laboring with me. It was a strange thought.

All morning, the sky had been bright blue and the sun beamed down on us, but as we neared the hospital, the sky turned black with foreboding. Minutes later, the skies opened and rain poured down thickly. We couldn’t see a thing. We covered our heads and ran to the hospital, dripping wet.

As soon as I stepped inside, the proverbial butterflies filled me.

Turned out it wasn’t quite a hospital in the sense that anyone who’d grown up in the States would recognize. It was more like a primitive urgent care, not that much care was being offered. Inside the building, the lights were flickering and the patients were evidently mentally ill, singing to themselves or banging their heads. I felt like I’d stepped onto the set of a haunted movie.

Even though I was spooked, I was also fascinated and excited to see where I’d been born. My mother, on the other hand, was trembling from head to toe and in tears, horrified at the thought of her daughter being born and abandoned in this terrible place.

I hardly noticed at the time. I was busy pulling her up the stairs behind me, eager to see what else was there. We passed a disheveled woman, scrubbing the stairs on her hands and feet. At the top, a nurse blocked our way, informing us that this wing was for sick people only. I asked her about the hospital, how long it had been standing, how long she’d been working there. It was indeed the very same hospital where I’d been born. In 1991, she shared, she’d been a nurse in the baby unit. I stared at her, speechless. She’d been there when I was born. Perhaps she had delivered me as a newborn, maybe even held me.

After she left, I peeked through the ward’s window and almost screamed in shock. There was a lady, clearly dying, on a trundle bed so low it almost touched the ground, her hands flopping helplessly to the ground.

At that moment, I thought, “This could have been my future.” Though I’d often expressed appreciation to my parents for adopting me, I said, with all my being, in a way that I couldn’t have expressed before, “Thank You Hashem for rescuing me from this place. Thank You for taking me under Your wing and giving me an amazing life.”

In the hospital waiting area, a lady with long, drooping hair swiveled her face towards mine. Feeling her eyes follow me as I walked out, I wondered if she was staring at me, remembering her daughter, long ago given up for adoption… or if she was merely curious: how was it I looked so much like her, but also looked like an American tourist?

The rain had stopped and as we left, I was better able to study the building. It was rundown, the path made of broken stones. Nearby houses were ramshackle, covered with tarps. Many of the drug-dazed locals looked just like me. It was unsettling. I’d stare at every face I came across, wondering, “Is that my mother? A relative?”

I’d been transferred from the hospital when I was just a few days old to an orphanage in the town of Vásárosnamény, the next stop on our itinerary.

Again, my mother warned me that we might reach a dead end, but amazingly the building was still standing (it closed a year later). A lady came over to greet us in Hungarian, “Hi, my name is Eva.” My mother replied, “Hi, I’m Vera. This is my daughter, Esther, who I adopted from this orphanage 25 years ago.” Eva’s mouth gaped open. “I remember you!” she declared. “You’re Timea, right? You look exactly the same!”

Nice as she was, she still tucked the coloring set we’d bought for the orphans into her own purse. The kids would never see it.

The orphanage ignited long-forgotten memories inside me: the yellow walls! Pink tiles! Even the smell! Everywhere I went, people stared. I understood — you can tell a Roma gypsy a mile away. We’ve all got similar high cheekbones, coloring, eye shape.

As Eva showed us around, I drank it all in, memories flooding back. I remembered being surrounded by lots of kids and crying babies, most of them unhealthy. I recalled a baby, his cot not far from mine, eyes swollen with infection, crying, crying… to no avail. I don’t recall anyone picking him up or soothing him.

I remembered eating bread, milk, and mashed potatoes. I remembered scooters and balls in the backyard, the crib we were placed in when we misbehaved, the deep fear I had of the constant, angry yelling voices, the barking dogs beyond the courtyard.

I remembered roll call in the mornings, kids all over the room standing next to their little colorful cots.

I remembered my friend, a boy named Altila. We’d explore together, both of us curious what was behind locked doors in a room where only guests were welcomed. Finally, in 2015, I was a guest, and those doors were opened for me. The room was filled with expensive toys to impress prospective adoptive parents.

Also on show were the eyeglasses all the kids were made to wear to show they were well-cared for. When my parents adopted me, they discovered I could have been blinded if I continued wearing glasses I’d never needed.

In the kitchen, a handful of thin, malnourished-looking kids sat eating a snack of milk and tea biscuits. They took one look at me, and most started giggling and whispering. My mother said in Hungarian, “This is my daughter who I adopted from this very orphanage.”

The kids were fascinated by me, by my camera, my phone, my face. A nurse said something in a biting tone to one girl who burst into tears and ran away from the table.

“What just happened?” I asked.

Someone translated: the nurse had said, “You could have been like her.” Meaning, like me — a spoiled American with a loving mother, fancy camera, and impressive phone. Apparently, the girl had been very close to being adopted until some incident stopped it in its tracks.

Hearing that, I couldn’t even imagine the sting of that verbal slap. That poor, poor girl.

As we left, the nurses told my mother they were shocked at how poised and refined I had turned out. My mother took the opportunity to explain that we’re Jewish, frum (which surprised them even more), and although I understood what they meant, I bristled at the words “turned out.”

The capital city of Hungary is Budapest and on our trip, I noticed these padlocks everywhere. A guide explained that these locks symbolize love. I couldn’t see it. Sure, Budapest is beautiful, but all I saw was jealousy and materialism. Not far away were poor towns, filled with poverty, degradation, and loneliness. No love. But then, my love is at home in America in the form of my little Ahuva — and my new baby Shayna.

I was gratified I’d visited my hometown. And even happier to be home.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 533)