Finding My Family

As my daughter lay in the recovery room, I decided to check my ancestry.com account to see if any new relatives had shown up. My daughter had sinus surgery, and from my own experience, I knew things would be messy – really messy – over the next few days. As the anesthesia wore off, she was in and out of consciousness.

When I logged onto my account, I audibly gasped when I saw the appearance of a new first cousin. I immediately checked our “shared matches” to see if she was on my maternal or paternal side. Holy shit! Paternal side! I laughed out loud, causing my daughter to stir. This would finally force Walt to accept the truth!

Walt was the birth father who refused to meet me. When I located my birth mother over 20 years earlier, she originally said that T.W. was my father, but when she saw me in person, she changed her mind. I was definitely Walt’s daughter. With an uncommon name, Walt was easy to locate. During our phone conversation, he remembered my birth mother with affection and agreed that he could be my father. He requested a photo, and I sent him a few of myself and my children. Two weeks later, I received the photos back with a brief letter. According to Walt, many people resemble other people, and at this point in his life, he did not want his world shaken up.

I was devastated. I did not expect a relationship with birthday cards, invitations to holiday dinners, or introductions to extended family. However, I did expect family history, copies of family photos, and a family health background. I wanted to see his face, observe his mannerisms, and determine any commonalities, such as food preferences, shared interests, and similar talents. I wanted to finally know who in the world I resembled.

My new first cousin had a small family tree attached to her profile. When I clicked on it, I gasped again, this time waking up my daughter. There were three T.W.s on her family tree. Oh my god! It was T.W. the whole time. I had looked up his very common name in the phone book from the city where I was conceived and called numerous men with his name. None of them admitted to knowing my birth mother, and I gave up since my birth mother remained convinced that Walt was the one.

After getting my daughter home and settled, I drafted a message to my new cousin. She responded immediately and minutes later we were on the phone. When I told her that T.W. was my father, she had guessed it already. Calling him a player was an understatement. I was the fourth child of his that she knew of, and all four of us had been adopted. Nine years before I was born, T.W. had gotten his high school girlfriend pregnant, and their daughter was placed for adoption. Two years later, he got the same girl pregnant again. This time, they got married. Another daughter was born, followed by a son a couple years later.

When T.W. began fooling around, his wife kicked him out. It was about that time when he hooked up with my birth mother. She never told him about the pregnancy because he had indicated that he wanted to get back with his wife and family. Sadly, that would never happen. T.W.’s wife divorced him, and when she remarried, her new husband adopted the other two children and changed their last names to his.

The following day, I had a phone call with my oldest half-sister, and the day after that, I spoke to my other sister. I live about a thousand miles away from my birth family. There is a slim chance that I may have encountered my siblings or cousins while visiting my birth mother’s family in the same urban area. Still, we never would have recognized each other as relatives, even if we were in the same room together. My half-sisters resemble their mother, and by all accounts, I take after T.W.’s mother. When I met my cousin’s son, he commented on how much I looked like his great grandmother. If DNA testing did not exist, I never would have found my paternal birth family.

My decision to take a DNA test was a no-brainer. As an adoptee, I desperately wanted to know my biological history. Even though I had enjoyed a full life with loving parents, there was still a gaping hole that could only be filled with knowledge.

Learning the truth has indeed been a messy ordeal. While I expected to eventually find proof that Walt was my birth father, the truth was much better. By all accounts, T.W. would have loved to have met me. Sadly, he died two years before I had my DNA tested. Although I missed the boat that would have led to meeting my birth father, I found my true family – a family that actually did want to know me.

© Joyce O’Day 2023. All Rights Reserved.

AI was NOT used in the creation of this story.