One woman's story of the trauma of discovering at midlife that she'd been adopted
At Thanksgiving 2018, my cousin suggested we get our DNA tested so she could track our grandfather’s lineage. I hesitated. I was 51 and had never had a desire to do DNA testing. Because my parents, both deceased, had known their heritage, I already knew mine. After some pressure, I agreed to take the test. We ordered our kits and I didn’t pay attention to mine when it arrived. After about a month, I found it while cleaning. I spit into the tube and didn’t give it a second thought.
In February 2019, my test kit came back with a complete mixture of ethnicities. I was confused and assumed there’d been some sort of mix-up. My mother had been 100% Irish and my father 100% Italian. I grew up Italian—like Sunday-dinner-at-2-at-my-grandparents-that-lasted-until-6-with-20-relatives kind of Italian. I’m an incredible Italian cook and I use many of my grandparents’ recipes. But my DNA test showed I’m only 2% Italian. The rest is German, French, English, French Canadian. You name it, I’ve got it—a far cry from the 50-50 I thought I was all my life.
I reached out to a DNA cousin on my match list who was an amateur genealogist and who realized that our match meant that one of her two uncles had to be my biological father. That’s how I learned I’d been adopted. One uncle was a playboy and one dated the same woman from the time she was 14 years old, so my father had to be the playboy. I discovered later that had I tested at 23andMe instead of or in addition to Ancestry.com, I would have matched with my father and one of my biological brothers, who’d been given kits as Christmas presents by my biological mother.
I learned that my biological parents were 15 and 17 when they had me. Strangely enough, my mother and her mother were pregnant at the same time, but no one knew my mother was pregnant. Her mother delivered a baby first and was with her husband and the new baby at the doctor’s office when my mother went into labor at home alone. She went into the bathroom, locked the door and delivered me. When her parents came home, they knocked down the bathroom door and there I was.
Finding out at 51 that I’d been adopted was confusing and an enormous blow to my identity. I’d been very close to my parents and took care of them both in my home for years before they died. I felt I’d lost my identity and my family in one fell swoop. Not only wasn’t I Italian, but I wasn’t my parents’ biological child. In a small town like the one I grew up in, your identity is entirely linked to your parents until you’re past 40. My father was very well known in our community, and I’d always been known chiefly as his daughter. I felt lost and confused.
I needed as much information as quickly as possible to make sense of this. I tried calling adoption agencies, but wasn’t able to learn anything. I finally managed to get a file of non-identifying information that filled in some blanks. It turns out I didn’t come to live with my adoptive parents until after I was a year old. It appears I was in foster care during that time because I’d been born at home without prenatal care. I talked to my parents’ neighbors and they filled in some blanks. Over time I realized that many people I grew up with knew I’d been adopted but no one had told me. A cousin finally told me that my parents couldn’t have children after my brother was born, so they adopted me.
I connected with my biological family and learned that they’d continued their relationship, have been married for 48 years, and have 3 other children. It was almost too much to take. I was overwhelmed. They’d wondered about me all their lives, and once we were in touch, wanted to pick up where they “left off.” But I was suffering trauma. I had to go to a counselor to help me work through the emotions. The cousin who talked me into doing a DNA test went into therapy as well, feeling that she’d somehow ruined my life by encouraging me to take the test.
It’s been more than a year and I’ve gotten to know my biological family. I’ve discovered that this experience has been a blessing in an odd way. Few people, after their parents have passed way, have another opportunity to develop such a familial relationship. Few can go from an ending to a beginning.
Sometimes I’m alone, driving in my car, and I’m struck by a mixture of grief and astonishment. It’s taking a long time to process the grief, but each day gets a little better. My husband and adult children have been incredibly supportive and have accepted my biological family members into their lives.
I look for opportunities to be grateful. I was raised by wonderful parents who loved and supported me my entire life. Now I have an opportunity to get to know my biological parents who also love me. Life is a journey, and sometimes the journey is truly an unknown adventure.
—Anonymous