A story by Lisa Franklin

Maybe she was at the stove, stewing plums in a pot, the sweet fruit scenting the kitchen, Mason jars lined up on the table awaiting the warm jam. The boys were at school, her husband at work, the only peace she ever got. They weren’t home to hear the shriek of metal, to see her lift her head or watch her pull back the curtain or answer the door to the stranger.

Maybe the accident had already happened, maybe she was still shaken when she saw him standing there as if he already owned her. His dark skin, his suit, his tie. So different from her husband with his hard hat and coveralls. What was he selling? Someone was always knocking to offer something: vacuum cleaners, encyclopedias. No, it was nothing she could touch or hold.

They sat, he on the couch, the middle cushion, she in the chair across from him. She remembers this now, months later, as her hand cups her belly. She was aware then of her thighs beneath her skirt and the angle of her legs, of how her feet rested in her high heels. But, no, she was merely a woman in pedal pushers and sneakers. It was how he looked at her that made her feel as if she wore a strand of pearls at her neck, perfume in the soft spot pulsing at the base of her throat.

She watched his smooth hands as he set the briefcase on his knees, heard the latches snap open. She felt herself sinking beneath the soft brown puddle of his gaze, into the tight embrace of her chair. She had never seen anyone with such beautiful skin, the color of polished burl.

“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?”

He did not look up from his papers. He did not smile. Or maybe he did, but only with one corner of his mouth. “No. Thank you. I have what I need.”

His voice, deep and unfamiliar, vibrated through her bones.

She had taken him away from his spiel, he was annoyed. She felt scolded. He cleared his throat, adjusted the knot in his tie, started again, his words like waves pounding, pouring over her, one and then the next. She heard the sound but not the meaning. She understood he wanted something from her.

He made a motion toward her, toward the rug.

“You’re dripping.”

“Oh!” She rose from the chair and hurried into the kitchen. At the sink, she shivered, ran cold water then hot. She picked up a towel but couldn’t remember what it was for, tried to think of her life before that moment, of branches scratching her arms as she picked plums from the backyard tree, the older boy taking the younger one’s hand as she shooed them outside, the growl of her husband’s truck as he drove off, but her mind would not let her linger, shoved her thoughts away and slammed the door.

Maybe then. Maybe the crash was then.

He must have heard it too. Maybe they both reached for the curtain. Maybe he was standing behind her, so close she could smell the spice of his aftershave, the faint tang of his sweat, could hear the quiet scrape of his suit jacket against his shirt when he moved. Or he was standing feet away, against the edge of the table, pen in hand, impatient. She sensed his determination, his need to follow through. The heat from his skin radiated toward her.

 “I just need to—” she said.

She does not know how one body found another, over the space of a room, over the resistance of gravity, over the weeping in her mind, how a minute expanded and contracted. She will never be able to explain how the plums boiled away and burned, how she was left with only broken glass glinting on the pavement and another beating heart.

Lisa a Franklin is a writer, photographer, and career coach. She lives in Walnut Creek, CA, with her husband and two cats. In 2018, she discovered through a DNA test that her biological father was someone other than she had always believed. 

By Adam E.L. Anthony

All my life, I’ve been told stories about my adoption that include words of gratitude, love, excitement, and pride, with a not-so-subtle Christian overtone from my family, friends, family-friends, and acquaintances. Those are the origin feelings I was supposed to emulate and identify with.

I’m not saying I didn’t genuinely have those emotions. It’s just that the darker and more complex emotions of anger, confusion, frustration, and doubt were “too much” for many that I have grown up with. I put those emotions away in a box without discussing them much, but they were still apparent in my actions and behaviors. Anxiety became a best friend. And how easy it can be to expel those feelings on unsuspecting people I encounter. I then feel hurt.

With the journey I’ve gone on so far, there is so much hurt, accompanied with sadness and some regret. It mostly has to do with those ancestors and biological connections passed that I never got the chance to connect with or those with whom our time together on this earth was much too short. It hurts that the people involved and the system did not consider my possible desires to want to know where I came from and the people who played a part in my existence. The assumption that I would just be okay with living a life that never fully suited me and having a limited backstory because “I’m so blessed and grateful to have the life I’ve been given, so the rest is moot”—well, that’s just incorrect. I feel the pain from the choices other people made for me, and because of my birth and adoption circumstances, there was nothing I could ever do.

But where is the space for me to say the feelings about what’s really going on here? I know it makes people uncomfortable because they are not used to me being so verbal and clear with my emotions on all this, but it is time. Of course, I know the gaslighting and persuasion comes from unsolicited opinions—either from those who know my adoptive parents and are ready to defend and support them or those who know my biological parents and are ready to do the same. No one in my family consistently cares in the way I need them to without inserting their own biases or opinions.

That reality makes me angry. I didn’t choose to be hidden or relinquished. Not that I feel self-righteous or indignant, but purposeful and overwhelmed, in this wildly complicated yet enlightening journey.

When it comes to healing and telling my story, it truly is up to me. No one else can do this journey for me, nor would I wish anyone else to go on it. This journey is not for the weak. It’s for those who have the capacity to endure as well as heal.

Adam Anthony is a native of Knoxville, TN but calls his true home in Cincinnati, OH. He currently resides in Murfreesboro, TN. Adam is a personal development blogger and speaker. He has a Master of Organizational Leadership degree, Bachelor of Science in Communications, and is a Doctoral of Education in Leadership candidate. Adam has a passion for volunteering with engagement organizations that focus on improving systems for people of color in the community, genealogy, and helping those in need.  He is an Eagle Scout from the Boy Scouts of America. Adam is also a member of the Association for Talent Development, the National Association for Adoptees and Parents, R.I.S.E Coalition, and other organizations and committees. During his free time, Adam participates in the following hobbies: volunteering, writing, public speaking, acting, singing, hiking, nature, binge-watching tv show series, and spending quality time with friends and family.

By Kelly Vela

I was born September 14, 1956, the third daughter to my mom and dad.

My parents were married in 1947 when my mother became pregnant with my sister. They moved to Los Angeles County and in 1951 they had another daughter who  was born with a hole in her heart and only lived for 9 months. Her death sent my mother into a depression which she couldn’t seem to kick.

I was never close to relatives or my dad. My sister was 9 years older than I, so we weren’t very close, even as we got older. I never felt a bond with my dad or my sister, but I never had any reason to think my dad was not my dad.

When I was about 6 years old, my mom became friends with a man next door. She would spend weekends with him and visit him during the week at his home. This affair went on until my parents divorced after 17 years. My parents had been married for 32 years. My dad, who was a functioning alcoholic, never knew about the affair.

I was 23 went they split and my mother moved in with the neighbor.

My sister sided with my dad, with whom she was close, and I sided with my mom, who always treated me special. My sister developed a strained relationship with our mother. They didn’t get along at all and fought since my sister was in her teens. I was the very quiet kid who never got into trouble. I just developed an eating disorder.

I didn’t marry until I was 37, probably because I saw the dysfunction in our family. By that time, my sister was on her third marriage, my mom married the neighbor, and my dad married a woman I never knew. He stayed married to her until he passed away in 1997. My mother stayed married to the neighbor until she passed away in November 2021.

So mom and dad are gone, and my sister and I do not speak at all, even though we live two miles from each other.

It is just me and husband, happy enjoying life, no more drama.

In January 2022, we decided to spit in a cup and see exactly what our nationality and ancestry is—how much English and how much Spanish. When the results came back in February, I was super excited, curious to see what I am. I’d heard rumors we were related to the Prince of Wales.

I saw the relatives on my mom’s side of the family, but none on   my dad’s side. I contacted my cousins on his side and ask if they saw me in their tree. They didn’t. And my sister appeared as a half sibling.

I couldn’t understand how this could happen. I didn’t know DNA could screw up. I spent months checking my DNA relatives every day on 23&Me and Ancestry; I knew somebody was going to show sooner or later.  I noticed that I had some Greek heritage, but my cousins had none.

I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, and by June I was still trying to figure out where everybody was. I was ready to hire a genealogist to help me.

My husband and I were on vacation in June, but I was still searching on both DNA sites. I started opening trees that belonged to relatives I’d never heard of and looked at their pictures.  I started seeing a pattern. I came across one photo from about 1944, a man in his military uniform. The photo was labeled “Johnny.”  I stared at the black and white photo, and  the hairs on my arms stood up. I had no idea who this man was but I could see myself in him.

I snagged the picture and put it next to a picture of me. I sent it to my cousins and asked if they thought  the man and I look alike. “Yes, they said. “who is this?” I had no idea.

I continued to research the new name and history. I wanted to reach out to these people but was too afraid to try.  I changed the family names on my bio to include theirs and boom! I got a message the next day. I showed up on their DNA connections, and they wanted to know who I was.

According to the DNA sites, I was chatting with my first cousin. As she explained who the people in the tree were, I blurted out that I thought Johnny is my father. After a few more emails, they agreed.

When I was growing up, my mom mentioned that she had had a boyfriend named Johnny. I never knew his last name or during what time frame they dated. Maybe she was dating Johnny and my dad at the same time? She might have become pregnant with my sister and had to marry my dad. Or maybe she met him later when she worked at Bank of America, where he and his wife banked. Maybe out of depression she reached out to Johnny after my middle sister died.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that she had numerous opportunities to tell me and she never did. She took this secret to her grave.

This explains why I never felt that bond with my birth certificate father or my half-sister. Maybe this was why she treated me special and maybe why my sister was jealous of me.

My Greek family and I met over lunch. They brought me family photos and gave me Johnny’s retired police badge. They had taken the time to make and share a CD of his funeral and memorial.  He passed away in 2009.

They told me I look and speak like him, and if he had known about me, he would have reached out.

So even though I never would have suspected my birth certificate dad was not my father, I felt there was somebody out there. A big brother is what I’d been hoping for. Someone to protect me.  Instead I had a father who was a police officer. That falls into the protective category!

In June, when we were on vacation, before I knew anything concrete, my husband and I were kayaking in the Ionian Sea off Sicily, across the water from the  Ionian Islands in Greece. I felt a pull to be in that water. It was a big deal to touch it. Now I know why.

My husband is Spanish and Indigenous. His son from a previous marriage is Spanish/Indigenous and African American and has daughter born four years who is African American, Spanish, and Irish. And they named her Athena, as in the Greek goddess.

I believe things come to you at the right time.

I’m 66 and have only been on this journey for four months. It’s overwhelming to have your world turned upside down in one click of a mouse. I’ve been through a wide range of emotions—  mad at my mother for never telling me.  She’d been adopted when she was three years old and found all of her family when she was 40.  She should have understood what would mean to me.

I was happy to know I looked like my biological dad, but then had to grieve his passing and the fact that I never knew him.

I’ve been so frustrated, sad, angry, and happy all at the same time. I’ve cried and yelled at mom’s picture.

Friends and family don’t really understand the full effect this can have on someone. I have a one friend and my husband who are supportive.

I have my art that I pour myself into. I joined NPE groups and listen to all the podcasts. Hearing all the others’ stories helps me know that what I’m experiencing is normal.

 We are on this journey together, and there is strength in numbers.

Kelly Vela is a retired photographer, woodworker, and watercolor artist.  She lives California with her husband, 1 dog, and five cats. She and her husband spend their free time traveling and wine tasting on their Victorian front porch. You can reach her at gkvela1@yahoo.com.

By Michelle Talsma Everson

“It has been an honor to raise you…”

She met me when I was 21 and broken. Now, a lifetime later, I’m 36, and she’s sitting across from me at Disneyland, pausing to make sure I understood that.

Also a mom, I understand the honor that comes with motherhood. Still very much broken but actively seeking healing now, I don’t comprehend how that honor can be applied to me. It’s like I understand it theoretically, but my heart is working on accepting it. One day at a time.

I am an NPE (non-parent expected). The dad who raised me isn’t my biological dad, and the man who is isn’t interested in taking up space in that realm. It’s like someone being raised from the dead and dying again. Not many people mourn the same relationship twice.

Even before I knew I was an NPE, I was the daughter of alcoholics, addicts, two people battling undiagnosed mental illnesses. They died when I was 22 and 24. I had their grandson in between. I was never loved how a child should be loved. Love is conditional, of course, dependent on how you act, who you pretend to be, and the moment itself. My parents tried—likely doing the best they could with the tools they had—but betrayal, abuse, and diagnoses of anxiety, depression, PTSD, and more tell a story that’s not pleasant to hear. “Sometimes we are the casualty in someone else’s battles against themselves” is my favorite quote from the internet.

“It has been an honor to raise you…”

She met me when I was 21 and broken. Now, a lifetime later, I’m 36, and she’s sitting across from me at Disneyland, pausing to make sure I understood that.

I refer to her as my bonus mom in my narratives. Mother-in-law no longer fits, and the guilt from that is something I battle. I want to apologize to her that her son and I couldn’t make a marriage work. I want to ask her forgiveness for me being so much. So much trauma. So much talking. So much anxiety. So. Much. Everything.

Instead, she simply says, “I love you for you, unconditionally.”

The thought floors me.

I love my own son unconditionally. There’s nothing he could do that would change that. So, in theory I understand, but my heart has a hard time believing that could be applied to me.

I often think of my own parents, dead now nearly 14 and 12 years, and I wonder if they’d still love me knowing that I found out about a long-held secret and—to heal—I share it with the world. I know they wouldn’t approve of how I live my life in that aspect and so many others. I hope they’d still be honored to have raised me. I’m not so sure.

But my bonus mom shows it through action, not just words. We have boundaries, but she knows my secrets, she includes me, she stands in the grey between being my ex’s mom but also being my friend, advocate, and bonus mom. She encourages us to be the best people we can be and to do what’s best for her grandson. Beyond that, she simply holds space and is there when we need her. She doesn’t play favorites between her son and me. It’s a balance not many manage.

 “It has been an honor to raise you…”

She met me when I was 21 and broken. Now, a lifetime later, I’m 36, and she’s sitting across from me at Disneyland, pausing to make sure I understood that.

It has been an honor to be raised by you. It has been a blessing to see you be a grandma to my son. It is a privilege to share your last name. I want to say thank you for loving me. For raising me. For stepping in when my mom couldn’t. For holding space for your own son and the woman who is raising his son. I appreciate it more than words can express. I tell your grandson that God gave me you because he saw I needed a mom. Instead of thanking you with words, I will do it with actions. I promise that your grandson will only know the unconditional love that you have shown me. Not only in words, but in action.

Because it is an honor to raise him, as it has been an honor to be raised by you.

Michelle Talsma Everson is an independent journalist, editor, and storyteller from Phoenix, Arizona. She discovered she was an NPE (not parent expected) in March 2021 and, since then, has been navigating how to best blend her writing and NPE discovery to be a voice and provide resources for those affected by surprise DNA discoveries. Read about her NPE journey on Scary Mommy and the Jewish News of Greater Phoenix. She’s also written about the topic for Next Avenue. To learn more about her career outside of her NPE discovery, connect with her on LinkedIn, visit her website, or follow her on Twitter.