Update: The study has closed and is no longer actively recruiting participants.

An Essay by Caitlin Jiao Alexander

An Essay by Hannah Andrews

“It’s one of the best profiles I’ve ever seen,” she says.

 Well swipe right I think, but it’s not that type of profile.

 I’m Zooming with my super-fancy genetic scientist doctor. I’d think her a total genius, except for the fact that she keeps forgetting I’m adopted. She’s just asked me, for the third time in as many appointments, about my medical history.

“No history,” I remind her, “I’m adopted.”

On my first appointment, (the one before the one where they took seemingly unending vials of fasting bloodwork and finally gave me an anti-anxiety pill so I could get through the claustrophobic MRI), I wrote DOES NOT APPLY on my intake form. All caps. I added (adopted)—lowercase and parenthetically. It’s second nature, though it has evolved. I used to write it in teensy letters as if whispering an apology for myself—adopted. Over the years, my words got bigger and messier. By my thirties, I’d scrawl ADOPTED kitty-cornered across the entire form.

But, I’ve matured.

On my best days, I make polite suggestions: “Perhaps you could add a box to the form—one that says Adopted or Unknown Parentage?”

This is not one of my best days, but I hold my tongue and we Zoom along. “You’re one of my healthiest patients in years,” she says and hits “share screen.” My monitor fills with the data of me–whole genome sequencing, blood-based biomarkers, bone and muscle analyses. She chirps through my results as if she created me—Dr. Frankenstein to my monster—and I must admit, it’s fascinating. I am riveted to the screen as I watch my mystery movie finally unfurl.

“There’s one anomaly,” she continues. “ You’re a carrier for…” and she turns into Charlie Brown’s teacher, wah-wahing her way through a bunch of words I don’t know. The gist of it—I’m a carrier of something, but it’s only dangerous if my reproductive partner is also a carrier.

I tell her, for at least the second time, that I’m 53 and childless.

She continues, “Well, it’s not a concern then but this gene mutation can sometimes increase the risk for liver issues—”

That’s where I cut her off.  “My biological mother died of liver cancer,” and then can’t stop myself, “I just assumed it was from booze, ‘cuz Illinois said I had no inheritable cancers or conditions, so I figured she drank too much—though I did meet her bestie who said she wasn’t a heavy drinker but my bestie would’ve told you that about me back in the day too, cuz, well, she was my bestie—”

Dr. DNA’s face freezes onscreen. Did the internet drop? Did I talk too much?

“I thought you didn’t have any information.” she finally says. Yeah, I talked too much.

“That’s all I know,” I stammer, like a little kid caught in a lie. I also bristle, ready to battle for myself because once I actually found out a smidge of my medical history, I didn’t feel like writing it down. Nobody cared when I had to write “does not apply” for 50 years, so I just kept writing it. The maternity home and adoption agency were content to scribble “mother healthy, part Spanish” on my record. Illinois legally disappeared me—locked up my original name, my mother’s name. Not one update in fifty years. When they changed the law I got my Original Birth Certificate with my name and her name. I dug until I found her. Dead.

Still, thanks to science I can, for a price, find out more. I can fill in some of my blanks.

Commercial DNA analysis replaced their lazy brush-off of “part Spanish” and provided me with a rich ancestral lineage that includes Sicily, Scotland, Mexico, Mali, Ghana, Ireland, and bits and baubles from a number of other regions. One genetic genealogist claimed I had the most diverse ancestry she’d seen.

 I am made of everywhere.

And no one.

 That same DNA company linked me to 6,000 matches on my paternal side, but for the life of me I can’t find my dad.

 But, good genes. Healthy genes. No apparent markers for Alzheimer’s or cancers, and I’m beyond grateful for this information. Yay science! Still, I can’t shake this bitterness. Much of this—I should’ve known years ago. Maybe it would’ve changed nothing. Or maybe everything.

The doctor continues Charlie Brown teaching me, but I’m done with today’s lesson.

“Awesome! Lemme just dust off my time machine, fly back to 1995 and pop out a kid or two.”

She tells me I’m funny, though neither of us laughs.

What I don’t tell her is….

I used to think (and by used to I mean not just when I was a kid, but until pretty recently), that maybe I was from another planet. I had no proof that I wasn’t. I possessed a fully fake birth certificate direct from the government. I mean, come on! So, I thought my spawn might also be alien, might just crawl right out of my belly.

I mean, it wasn’t the only reason I didn’t reproduce, but it was on the list. Near the top.

I know it’s illogical but so is having no history, no identity.

Anyway, I am prove-ably human now.

My super fancy, practically genius genetic scientist doctor says my genes are superior. Okay, maybe not superior. Not super-model or Ensteiny-smart genes, but really healthy. The best she’s seen in years.

And they will die with me.

By Gwen Lee

I settled into the chair, ready for the stylist to begin my long-overdue haircut. I’ve found that there are varying degrees of chattiness among stylists. While I tend to be fairly quiet, if the person who’s going to hold me captive in their chair for the next hour or so starts an interesting conversation, I’ll gladly participate.

Salon chair conversations are usually innocuous enough. On this particular day, the conversation took a different turn. The stylist, Sophia, launched into a story about how she was angry with her ex-husband because he was trying to convince her daughter that she was not his biological daughter. There was a matter of the daughter’s hair coloring (that had to be how we got on this topic) not matching the ex-husband’s color. Sophia was considering having her daughter take a DNA test to prove that her ex-husband was indeed her daughter’s biological father.

I didn’t, and would never, interfere in anyone else’s family drama, especially that of a virtual stranger. Otherwise, I might have been inclined to tell her to tread carefully. Warning bells starting going off and red lights started flashing in my head. It had been about a year since I’d learned I was an NPE (not parent expected).

My discovery that the man whose name was on my birth certificate was not actually my biological father came, like so many others, after I took an Ancestry DNA test in 2017, purely out of curiosity about my ethnicity. When I started looking at DNA matches, I noticed a lot of names I recognized as maternal relatives. I didn’t know a lot about my dad’s family. He and my mother had divorced when I was 5 years old. He moved across country, and I’d only had a handful of visits with him since. But I knew enough to know that I didn’t see anyone from his family on my list of matches. There were also a lot of names I didn’t recognize at all. It didn’t take me very long to figure out what had occurred. It didn’t seem impossible to me. After all, years ago, my sister discovered she was an NPE. That was before Ancestry DNA tests. Someone gave her a hint and she used the services of a private detective, who also happened to be our brother, to find her biological father. After researching, talking to some cousins on my paternal side, and using the services of a search angel, I was able to determine who my bio father was. I then asked one of his daughters to test on Ancestry. The result confirmed she was my half-sister.

By the time I made my discovery, my mother and my bio father had both passed away. Consequently, I’m left with many unanswered questions. I’ve come to accept that there are many details around my conception that I will never know.

I wrestled with the decision about whether I should talk to my birth certificate father about this situation. That brings me to one of the dilemmas faced by many NPEs at some point after the world turns itself back upright again after they make their discoveries. To whom are they going to tell their stories?

We all have to make decisions about whom we can trust with our stories. It’s not really a matter of comfort, because I doubt that many of us feel “comfortable” telling our stories to anyone. It’s not a situation that engenders comfort. But I know from listening to many NPE stories that many of us do tell someone, and often we feel better for having shared.

There is no NPE Discoveries for Dummies manual. We’re left on our own to decide how to handle these matters, and telling or not telling is a decision that we have to make on our own. Even for those NPEs who are lucky enough to have therapists or counselors helping them navigate their journeys, and while there are likely some professional opinions, I believe it has to be the decision of the NPE.

So many circumstances go into the decision about whether NPEs will share their stories with someone else, and they are all very personal. We talk about how there a few basic premises behind NPE discoveries—the things that put us all in the same boat. Yet, everyone’s story has many individual aspects. It’s the same with the tell-or-don’t-tell decision. Everyone has very personal issues that cause them to grapple with this decision.

Decisions range from I’m not telling anyone because it’s no one’s business but mine to I’m very open about it—I even told the grocery store clerk. Many decisions fall somewhere between the two. The vibe I got from Sophia, my stylist, is that she’d be one of the more open story tellers.

Many NPEs tell some, but not all, family members and a few select friends. Some tell most of the family, leaving only a few relatives in the dark. Based on my own decision-making processes and on other NPE stories I have heard, there are a variety of motivations behind some of these decisions.

Some people only tell their stories to the people they think might be interested. I think we all have been in a situation where we start to talk about DNA or NPEs and the eyes of the person we’re talking to glaze over. That’s not someone I’d be likely to get into a deep NPE discussion with. Some people are interested initially, but if we keep bringing the subject up to them a year or two later, we sense they are losing interest. Most of us realize that our stories aren’t as impactful to anyone else as they are to us.

Some NPEs feel they need to tell their stories to those affected by their discoveries. This is especially true if they happen to be on the same branch of the family tree—for example, if the discovery directly affects the NPEs children and grandchildren. I knew right away that I wanted to tell my sons and daughters-in-law. It directly affected them as well. I also told my brothers and my sister, even though they are half-siblings. My discovery didn’t directly affect them, but it may have helped clarify some of the family history as it pertained to our mother. I think I told them more out of a need to share with someone who cared about me—someone who might understand, or at least try to understand, what I was going through. Of course, I also told my husband. He’s been supportive but really has little interest in the whole discovery process, so  I don’t discuss it with him on an ongoing basis.

The people I do continue discussing it with are those in the NPE support group that I attend once a week. This group has been my salvation. I am able to share with others who are all in that same proverbial rocky boat I’m in. We all have stories that differ in ways, some slightly, some considerably, but we understand each other and support each other and take every opportunity to lift each other up. I’m incredibly thankful to have been referred to this group by a fellow NPE.

Some of us who have been open with some of our family members have one or several people we’ve decided not to tell. Again, the reasons for these decisions vary widely. We might feel these people will not understand and will just find the whole issue somewhat shameful; they might  insinuate that we should just “put it away.”

Sometimes, when we choose not to tell certain people, it’s out of an effort to protect our mothers’ reputations. It may have come to light that our NPE status resulted from extra-marital affairs, and we don’t want our moms to be seen in a bad light, so we choose not to tell our more judgmental relatives. And other times we don’t feel that a particular person would be able to handle this complicated information.

There are also instances in which we believe that a person will take our stories, throw them into a mixing bowl, stir it around, and bake up big family dramas. They might invest all of their negative energy into the situation, possibly with no regard to how it will affect the NPEs.

Another scenario involves NPEs wanting to spare certain people the heartbreak that the knowledge would bring them. They may want to spare a mother who didn’t know who the father of her child was and who let the birth certificate father believe the child was his; or a mother who may have conceived after a sexual assault; or a birth certificate father who had no idea he was not the biological father; or one who knew and chose to keep the secret and raise the child lovingly as his own. Suddenly we have the truth in our hands but we want to spare our loving fathers the sadness it would bring them. In these scenarios, the NPEs consider it a gift to keep this information from their parents. Others say the parent has a right to know. Sometimes the parents’ health and age may play part in the decision, for example with an NPE deciding that their parent is too close to the end of their life to needlessly lay this information in their lap.

I believe all of these scenarios in which discovery information is withheld, just like many of the other issues that rise up along the pathways of our NPE journeys, are fluid. It may take months, even years, but an NPE might rethink their decision to not tell a certain person. It’s a personal decision.

As part of my journey, I chose not to tell my birth certificate dad. By the time I made my discovery, he was already near the end of his life and suffering with dementia. I simply couldn’t justify bringing this information to him, if he’d been able to understand it.

I’m hoping that at least one person will see this and know that they are not alone in some of these feelings, doubts, and fears they wrestle with while deciding to tell or not tell. If that’s you, you can take comfort in knowing that many of us are in that same rocky boat. There are no right or wrong decisions for everyone. Ultimately, these choices are yours alone to make.  Give yourself time and some grace and know you will make the right decisions for you.

Gwen Lee is a mother and grandmother of four. She and her husband, Don, have been married for 51 years. Lee has lived in Southern California her whole life, and she retired in 2020 from her profession as an administrative assistant. She enjoys reading and crafting, particularly crochet. Her email address is gwenlee84@gmail.com.

By Angie Clark

I had a rocky, on- and off-again relationship with the man I knew as my dad my entire life. But in 2007, we were tight. We’d practically been best friends for about 10 years at that point. Unfortunately, he met a woman he would marry later that year and who, for various reasons, wasn’t a fan of mine or any of his other family members, and not long after, he completely cutties with me.

Ten years later, I heard his wife had been saying tacky things about me to my nephew and even had the audacity to say something to the effect of “Angie isn’t even his real daughter!” The next thing I knew, I was agreeing to a DNA test because, clearly, she is out of her mind … right? There was someone related to the family who was acting as a go-between, and she said we should take the tests. My “dad” took one the following week. I was happy to put to rest once and for all the rumor his wife had started. On Thanksgiving morning, 2017, at about 7am, I was awakened by the ding on my phone letting me know I had an email message. When I checked it, I saw: “SUBJECT: Your DNA Test results are in!” I was 43 years old, and my mind was flooded with memories and images of my life as I tried to comprehend that my dad, my hero, the man I’d wanted my entire life to make proud of me was, indeed, not my biological father.

Four years earlier, my mom had passed away. In those last days of her life, we had many deep conversations, and one of them was about my dad. She knew how hurt I’d been the last few years about his distance and that I never understood how he could just abandon me that way. How could anyone do that to their daughter? It crossed my mind maybe he wasn’t my dad, so asked my mom if there were any possible way that anyone else could be my father. She clearly and firmly said no, and I left it at that. It was just a random thought anyway.

After my DNA test results came in, without being able to go to my mom for answers, I immediately began making phone calls and sending email messages. I’d always heard rumors about my mom having had affairs, and my phone calls confirmed that. There was one man she was especially close with, a family friend, and there had been rumors about them being together. I knew him my entire life, so I called him. After we caught up on a few things and I explained what was going on, he told me that it would be him. He had been with my mom multiple times, and I even found a photo of them dancing together on New Year’s 1974, which is about the time I would have been conceived. I didn’t have a definitive DNA match, but I had an acquaintance helping me sort through all of the DNA findings because she had done a lot of DNA research. She told me he probably was my biological father because she found several of his ancestors in my matches. With my friend’s confirmation and his admission, we both accepted that he was my biological father. He told me that he didn’t want anyone to know because he was still married to the same woman he was married to back then, and he didn’t want to hurt her or their children.

Although it was painful and I felt rejected, I respected that he didn’t make this known to any of his friends and family. I tried to move on, but it was hard. I was dealing with so many feelings and different facets of rejection. I felt alone and unworthy of being wanted or loved. In addition, I was battling feelings about my mother. I would have expected to be very angry with her, but I wasn’t. I guess I was hurt more than anything. Hurt that she didn’t feel like she could be honest with me and that she carried that secret her entire life. I also found myself replaying so many times in my life, trying to dissect choices she made and things she said, trying to see if I could find any hints or clues that I might have missed. I also thought about the fact that the man who raised me was my “dad” for 43 years. Not long after my parents divorced and I was living with my mom, I came home from school one day and she had our apartment packed up. I was so excited thinking that we must be moving back into a house instead of the apartment, so I asked her where we were moving. “I am moving to California, and you are staying with your dad here in Texas,” she said. “He will be here in 20 minutes.” Before I could even process what was happening, I was in a car being driven by my stepmother, taking me to what would be my new home.

Now, as an adult with my newly discovered information, I couldn’t help but wonder how she could have done that? It’s one thing to abandon a child for five years, but she knew in her heart that he wasn’t even my dad. To think of everything I went through during those years, and again … he wasn’t even my dad. These types of thoughts and scenarios played out in my mind for the next two years.

Although I was coming to terms with this mind-blowing discovery, in the summer of 2020 something was telling me this story wasn’t over. I felt like I was missing something. As much as I didn’t want to open old wounds, I started to poke around again. On social media, I was introduced to a group called DNAngels. I sent them a message and explained my situation. I said that I’d discovered who I thought was biological father, but I felt as if something was missing. I wanted concrete evidence. DNAngels accepted my case, and within 10 minutes of just browsing my family tree and DNA matches, Laura Olmsted, who was working my case, called me. “Well I can already tell you that I don’t think he is your biological father,” she said. Wow! Here we go again, I thought. Another emotional roller-coaster ride, coming right up!

Laura told me that she’d do her best to confirm her suspicion and to find my biological father. She asked me to allow her some time as she was still finishing up some other cases, and mine might be tricky without many matches on my paternal side. During the next few days, I couldn’t help but be excited. Was this a second chance? I already went through the rejection from the person I thought was my dad. Maybe this was going to be the happy ending I had always wanted! Maybe a dad, maybe more—maybe a family!

One week later, a little past midnight, Laura sent a message. She was sorry for messaging so late, but she hit a rabbit trail on my case and was so excited she wanted to share it with me right away. She said she’d discovered my great-grandparents on my paternal side. This was exciting and amazing that she found them so fast. Over the next hour she messaged back and forth with a few discoveries and to let me know she was getting closer. After about half an hour of silence, when I thought maybe she’d decided to call it a night and go to bed, she sent another message. “I would like you to meet your Father,” and she attached a picture of a very handsome man, a photo clearly taken a good 60 years earlier when he was a teenager. I could see the resemblance between us. It was amazing! She sent a few more photos and more information about him and his family. She even gave me contact information so I could reach out to him. I was so excited I didn’t even go to bed that night. I stayed up all night thinking about calling him first thing in the morning.

All night, I played out in my head what I would say and how he would respond, and I would go through scenarios of various outcomes. Although I knew better than to expect a happy ending, that hope inside of me had been reignited. I knew he would probably be shocked; after all, he was 83 years old. I didn’t know if he knew about me or if this would be a complete surprise. My goal was to let him know who I am, and at least give him my contact information so he could reach out to me after the shock wore off, if he was inclined to do so.

At 9 a.m., my hands were trembling and my heart was racing as I dialed his phone number. I almost couldn’t even speak; then I heard him say hello. My first thought was that he sounded so sweet—like such a nice man. I said hello, told him my name, and explained that I’d been researching online and found that he knew my mom—that they worked together back in the early 70s. “Yes!! Of course I remember Nancy,” he said. I told him what I’d been researching and that I’d discovered he was my biological father. I said I understand it might be a huge shock and that he might need some time to think about it.

“Well… what do you want?” he asked. “I don’t want anything other than to give you my contact information so that someday, if you decide you want to reach out to me, you can.”  He then said he didn’t see the point of that, and as he continued to talk about how other people involved would be hurt, I couldn’t help but to slowly fade out to thoughts of rejection, disappointment, and absolute heartbreak. Again. I couldn’t even get him to take my phone number before he said, “Well good luck,” and hung up. And just like that, my second chance for a happy ending was over. I couldn’t believe it. How could this happen? Again.

A few hours later, I learned that someone associated with DNAngels actually knew him. What a coincidence! She’d worked with him at the same company, but later in the 1980s. She offered to talk to him again for me, to explain that I wasn’t a fraud, and to share with him how all of this came about. Before she hung up, she asked me what three questions I’d like to ask him. I replied:

1. Did you know I existed and did you love my mother or was it just a casual relationship?
2. Is there anything in my medical history I need to know? I’ve battled several chronic illnesses so this would be great information to have.
3. Is there anything you want to know about me—anything that I could share about myself?

A few hours later, she called back and told me about her conversation with him. No, he did not love my mother, it was an on and off again sexual affair that started at work. He claimed he didn’t know about me or even that she’d been pregnant. He shared with her his medical history, and after she asked the last question about what might want to know about me, he said, “Well, I don’t know, I can’t think of anything.”

What a kick in the gut; not only did he not even want my phone number, he didn’t even want to know one single thing about me. Yet I had and still have so much I would love to share with him about me and his grandson.

People have asked if I regret pursuing this again only to be hurt. My answer is absolutely not. DNAngels brought me something priceless—the truth. And although this isn’t a happy ending, after a few days of wallowing in my feelings and drowning in my tears, I found such strength and resolution in knowing the truth and knowing where I came from once and for all. Most of all, I found closure.

Almost four years since that DNA test, I have been through many challenges, most of which are all directly related to fallout of this discovery. It’s amazing to me how such indescribable hurt and loss can morph into such a source of strength and resilience. Not long after the initial discovery, I had a complete emotional breakdown. I stopped working. I became very ill and I even lost my home. I remember sitting there in my car in the gas station parking lot looking through my phone trying to find someone, anyone, I could stay with. There was no one. I was officially homeless. Since then, I rebuilt from the bottom up. Physically, emotionally, and financially. I even went back to college and I’m about to complete my MBA. After much time of healing, I reached out to my two new sisters twice, with no response. I have since put myself in their shoes, and I do understand how one email completely changed what they believed and thought about their father and the family they were raised in, and I certainly understand wanting to protect their mother. I will never lose hope that one day they will want to know me and my story and share theirs with me. Until then, I’ve found family and comfort in others who have been through this lifechanging experience. I’ve decided I must share my story with others. I have to let them know they are not alone and that not all of us have ideal happy endings with our newfound families. But, this doesn’t mean we haven’t gained something extraordinary from this experience, and I am forever grateful for that.

Angie Clark is from Dallas, Texas and has spent time in Los Angeles, Boston, and Stockholm. She’s a proud mother to her son Erik and a devoted cat mom. She discovered her NPE status in November 2017, and her story has been featured in several podcasts and publications. Clark is a graduate of Southern New Hampshire University with a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration and is in the Master of Business Administration (MBA) program with an anticipated completion date of November 2023. She was a featured guest speaker at Harvard Medical School, and is working on her first book, to be released in December 2024. Follow her on Instagram @angiecarolyn74 and on Twitter @angiecclark.

By Kellie Schwartz

Many times in our lives we are told things we assume to be true. Some of these are harmless. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all visited me, and I didn’t feel betrayed or harmed when I found out the truth. I continued these traditions with my children and love that they’ve continued them with my grandchildren.

Sometimes the things we are told simply prove to be less valid over time. In 1988, my eighth-grade pre-algebra teacher didn’t believe he was lying when he said, “You have to learn and memorize all of these algorithms because it’s not like you are always going to carry a calculator everywhere you go.” At that time, he was right. Fast forward 25 years, and we do carry a calculator everywhere we go, and it takes great pictures too! And we even use it to make phone calls and receive text messages. He had no idea what the future had in store. Nevertheless, we don’t have to know everything because… well … Google.

Other times, we’re told falsehoods that have a profound effect on our lives and the lives of others around us.

I was born in 1975 in El Paso, Texas. I went home with my mom and my beloved grandparents, whom I affectionately called Gaga and Papa. My mom married when I was about 18 months old, and although I have no memories of those first months, I vividly recall my life with her and her husband. I called him Dad. They went on to have three more children, two girls and then a boy. I was the oldest and always different in looks and personality. I cried easily, wore my feelings on my sleeve, and was treated differently. Dad was a mean SOB, and I was his favorite target. When I was about six years old, my mom and dad separated again, and then we lived with Gaga and Papa.

Gaga pulled me onto her lap, played with my hair, and rubbed my chin (all the things she did to calm me and show me affection). She then let me know she had something she needed to tell me. I can remember so many things about this moment—the gold crushed velvet chair, the end table with a lamp next to it, a few tears in her eyes, and her hands. One on my back, rubbing softly, and one under my chin so I was looking directly at her. She took a deep breath and said, “Kellie Lynn, I feel like you need to know that Bill is not your real dad. Your mom and he married when you were very young. I love you, and I didn’t think it was fair for your mom to not tell you.” Even at six years old, I felt an incredible sense of relief. Although it would change nothing about my daily home life (my mom went back to Bill soon after this), things made sense. He treated me differently, and badly, because to him, I was different. I wasn’t his. The other revelation that followed was that my mom was not my protector. Maybe she wasn’t capable of it. She didn’t come to my rescue nearly as often as I needed to feel safe and loved.

For the following six years, life was status quo. I thrived at school academically. I was very quiet, read everything I could get my hands on, made great grades, and, thankfully, was a part of a loving church family. My mom left Bill a couple more times, and finally, on their wedding anniversary in 1987, she packed us into a rental car with a couple suitcases and we left. We went back to live with Gaga and Papa, where I felt safe and loved. There were nine people living in a crowded double-wide mobile home, but there was no more screaming, yelling, hitting, or name calling.

The following summer, I reached out to my mom’s older sister, writing to tell her I wanted to contact my real dad. I knew that if anyone would help me, it would be her. I sent the letter on a Tuesday, and on the following Thursday evening the phone rang. Papa always answered the phone, and after a few minutes, he said, “Kellie Lynn, it’s for you.” It was my aunt, Carollyn. She asked if my mom knew I’d sent the letter to her. When I told her she did not, Carollyn said I had to tell her. She added that she and my uncle were  going to pick me up over the weekend, and I would meet my dad on Monday. I was terrified. I knew my mom would be angry; I was scared of an in-person meeting with my father and yet a little excited. This was the heyday of the daytime talk-show, and that week several had episodes about people meeting birth parents and it going terribly wrong. Oprah, Donohue, Geraldo, and Sally Jesse did nothing to ease my mind. But there was no turning back. I went with my aunt and uncle, and less than 24 hours later a blond guy walked through the door with flowers, a stuffed dog, and a card. He showed me pictures of my grandparents, great grandparents, and a brother and a sister. I was shy and said very little. He was nervous, too. We ended the evening at Pizza Hut. I remember eating next to nothing and staring at my Dr. Pepper a lot. My mom came to town a few days later and they had a talk. Our relationship grew as best as it can with a teenage girl and a single guy who worked full-time.

 My mom moved us to the same town, and the relationship ebbed and flowed. He remarried, I made a few life choices he didn’t agree with, and we ended up with no contact for a few years. He missed my wedding and the births of my first two children. He eventually called and wanted to talk. I agreed, but wouldn’t let him meet my kids quite yet. We went to a local park and he said the words I had always worried he would. “I should have asked your mother for a paternity test.” I was devastated. It had been 15 years since we met at this point and a test seemed like such a moot point. Then he refused to acknowledge that he said it, but I could never unhear those words. They haunted me.

Life continued, and our relationship stayed very cordial, but not close. I didn’t know what to say or what he wanted to know. In 2015, my life took another unexpected turn. My mom was diagnosed with stage 4 triple negative breast cancer. Four months from the date of diagnosis, she was gone, and my life continued to change. I was left with three of my four kids still at home, and my husband and I inherited three additional kids that my mom had adopted from foster care. So we had two 13- year-olds, a 14-year old, two 15-year olds, and an 18-year-old. My house was chaos.

I took a 23andMe test, and when my results came in, I looked at the DNA matches and recognized only one name, but this maternal side would be easy to trace. Gaga had done extensive family research, and the one name was a second cousin once removed on my mom’s side. I closed the app and really never thought about it again. Life continued, and due to other hurdles in our lives, I put this on a back burner. Maybe not even on a burner really, just not even thought about.

In August 2020, I took an Ancestry DNA test. This time I was determined to prove to my dad that he was, without a doubt, my dad. As I looked at my results, I found numerous matches on my maternal side and I worked to try to connect other matches to my dad. The matches not from my mom’s side were further down, and I couldn’t figure it out. But again, life got busy, and I put the results away. In hindsight, I think I realized that something wasn’t quite right, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it.

In November 2021, I couldn’t attend church with my family because I had bronchitis. Thinking I had nothing to lose, I messaged the top nonmaternal match and asked if she had any family living in the El Paso, Texas or Las Cruces, New Mexico areas in 1974. Within a few minutes, she messaged back saying she had grandparents and an aunt and uncle who lived there at that time. The aunt had two kids who then would have been in their early twenties—a son and a daughter. These were my match’s only relatives, so the logical conclusion was that the son was my biological father. I sent another message for more information and soon discovered that the uncle worked for the same company as my grandfather. The pieces started to fit together, but my life felt as if it were falling apart. It was like a puzzle I’d spent my life putting together was suddenly put through a paper shredder and made absolutely no sense. The pieces no longer fit, and I had no one to ask questions. My mom and both my grandparents were gone. My aunt tried to be helpful, and she was supportive, but she was also shocked. My goal of proving myself to my dad had backfired. I’d proved that he had every reason to be suspicious.

Unbeknownst to me or his other daughter, sometime around Christmas 2022, my birth father took an Ancestry DNA test as well, and his results show us as a parent/child match. My goal for the next year is to grow our relationship. I want him to meet my kids and my grandkids and for them to know him as well. I want my new sister to meet her nieces and nephews and for our relationship to become closer. All of this takes time, energy, and willingness to step out of our boxes.

I will never know why my mom made the decisions she made, and I have no idea whether she lied because she thought there was no way we’d ever know or if  she simply guessed about my paternity and picked the wrong man. I wish she would have been honest with me, but to say my mom was slightly “truth challenged” is a huge understatement. As hard as it would have been to hear, “I’m just not sure who your dad is,” it would have saved so much heartbreak. Being an NPE (not parent expected) is tough enough; being a double NPE is even harder. Meeting a biological parent you were unaware of profoundly changes you, but I have now done that twice. Or so I thought. Not knowing how to handle a changed family dynamic makes you feel alone and completely misunderstood.

So the next time you choose to withhold the truth, stretch the truth, or just lie by omission, please think of the ramifications of that decision years later. Who will be impacted? What will it do to your relationships? And how will affect another’s memory of you?

Truth is powerful, and at times painful.  But without the truth, healing will never be complete.

Kellie Schwartz is a wife to Doug, a mom to Kelsie, Kyle, Cassidy and Caden, and a Lolli to Kendrick, Karston, Caylie and Aubrey. She’s made her home in Eastern New Mexico  since 1988. She sews, quilts, crafts, and reads when she’s not working or enjoying time with kids and grandkids. She and her husband enjoy fishing and spending time outdoors. She’s a double NPE. Follow her on Instagram @Kellie.Schwartz.