Your father died before you were born. Your mother gave you up for adoption. She had many reasons, but what reasons are enough to give up your own child? Your own flesh?
Even though you never knew them, your parents’ actions informed your entire life. It wasn’t an entirely miserable life. But it was a lesser life, inhibited by a lack of connection to your family blood. Play yard battles scarred more without a mother to care for your wounds. Adolescence was more confusing without a father to clarify your physical changes.
Like a creature kept for years in the dark, you craved the warmth and Vitamin D of the sun more than most. Even once you were your own man, free of childish needs, the craving would not abate.
But it was not sunlight you missed. It was the attentions of your own flesh and blood. And so it became flesh that you craved. And blood.
That of your mother, absent but not gone. Distant, but not unreachable.
A blood that makes your own boil with the anger and malcontent at her abandonment. At her quick dismissal.
So seek her out. It is your birthright to do so. But be wary of your rage—not because it might lead to her death, but because it will lead to yours.