This memoir knew my name.
Some books don’t just tell a story — they become one inside you.
Diane Wheaton’s Finding Loretta did exactly that for me. It didn’t entertain; it entered. Gently. Unflinchingly. And then it stayed.
As a fellow adoptee, though oceans and borders apart, I recognized her ache. It echoed in a dialect I know too well — the one shaped by absence, ambiguity, and unanswered questions. Her story pulled at something old in me, something buried but breathing.
There’s a quiet sorrow that hums through the pages. Not melodramatic. Not performative. Just true. A residue of all that was lost, all that was hidden, all that had to be survived. But alongside it — unmistakable — was the soul fire. The rising. The return to self.
What Diane offers isn’t just a memoir. It’s a light shone into the undercurrents of adoption — the places that are still taboo, still tender, still not spoken of in polite conversation. She doesn’t whisper. She names. And in the naming, she frees.
This book doesn’t beg for empathy. It embodies strength. Forgiveness here is not offered cheaply — it’s hard-won, honest. It doesn’t forget what came before, but it refuses to let pain be the period at the end of the sentence.
There’s no false triumph here. Just a fierce, luminous grace.
Finding Loretta isn’t a book I’ll shelve and forget. It’s a companion. A mirror. A kind of quiet revolution — told through one woman’s search, but echoing through my own heart.
It shall stay with me because it can.
Because some voices don’t just echo — they harmonize with your own.
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