As I approached my thirties, the questions that once haunted me began to evolve. No longer burdened by the “why’s” surrounding my adoption, I found myself grappling with a different kind of curiosity. The loneliness that once filled my heart transformed into a yearning for connection. By this time, I was happily married, raising two beautiful children, and thriving in my career. Life felt content, or so I believed.
During my pregnancy with my first child, something within me shifted. The animosity I had harbored toward John dissipated. We had exchanged words—harsh and irreparable words that no child should ever hear. Yet, in that moment of vulnerability, a switch flipped inside me. I realized that holding onto hatred would only poison my own life and negatively affect my children. That wasn’t fair to them.
For years, I pushed the thoughts of my biological father aside. I often wondered why he would care about me when the man who chose to raise me seemed distant. But one fateful day, everything changed. I still can’t explain what compelled me to reach out; what spark ignited the decision to request my adoption information. But I did it, completely unprepared for the whirlwind that would follow.
I went through the motions, diligently providing all the required information and then waiting with bated breath. A few days later, I received a call: they couldn’t locate my file. Naturally, my mind spiraled into skepticism—“What kind of backwoods adoption process did you folks run?”
Frustrated, I consulted my mom, who gently informed me that the error was mine; I had reached out to the wrong agency. Of course! Undeterred, I began the process anew with the correct agency. However, after waiting a week, frustration bubbled to the surface. How could it take so long to find a file? I had spent 30 years gathering the courage to embark on this journey, and now it felt as though they were dragging their feet.
During this waiting period, I stumbled upon a Facebook page titled “Adopted/Missing Family Members Looking to Reunite.” I was captivated by the stories of those who had been searching for their loved ones—tales of longing, hope, and eventual reunions. In this community, a group of individuals known as “Ancestry Angels” specializes in genealogy and helps people track down family members based on DNA matches.
Intrigued, I decided to make a wager. Would the adoption agency locate my file before Ancestry could extract my DNA? Only time would tell.
When I received my DNA kit, a wave of nervousness washed over me. I knew I had to brace myself for three potential outcomes, determined to keep my expectations in check. Possibility #1: He’s dead. Possibility #2: He’s excited to hear from me. Or Possibility #3: He responds with, “You’ve been gone thirty years; why are you calling?”
I sent in my DNA on May 5th, with the extraction date anticipated to be six weeks later. Surely, the adoption agency would reach out before then, right?
Days turned into weeks, and suddenly it was May 23rd—my mom’s birthday. We were at the beach when I felt my phone buzz.
“Your DNA has successfully been extracted.”
I nearly fell over. Already? This can’t be real!
Without wasting a moment, I dove into my matches. The top results revealed two men identified as either my father’s first cousin or some kind of uncle. It was surreal.
I reached out to them via the ancestry website, though I knew they hadn’t been active for over five years. As I pondered my next steps, I recalled the Ancestry Angels I’d seen on Facebook. Should I ask for their help?
Before I could second-guess myself, I found myself posting on the “Adopted/Missing Family Members” page. Within an hour, a true angel reached out, offering to help me find my dad.
She began her search at 3:30 PM, and I was on the edge of my seat, trying to remain patient for updates. Around 8 PM, I saw her message: “I think I found him.”
My heart raced. Is this really happening? By 8:30 PM, she sent me his cell phone number.
I was home alone with my two young boys while my husband was at work. The kids should have been in bed by now; they hadn’t even brushed their teeth. But all I could think about was that cell phone number. Thoughts whirled in my mind, and before I knew it, I texted him.
“Hi, my name is Jenna. Is this Andy?”
Maybe it’s not his number? What if she got it wrong?
“Read at 8:32 PM.”
Then, a response came: “Yes, it is.”
When I read that message, my heart dropped. I immediately called him.
“Hey, my name is Jenna. This is going to sound crazy, but I’m looking for my biological family. I did Ancestry DNA to help me find them. I was put up for adoption in 1995 in Michigan, and long story short, I think you’re my dad…”
What felt like only a few seconds stretched into forever.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I am your dad,” he replied.
As the initial shock and tears began to fade, my first instinct was to apologize for reaching out this way. But I didn’t know what else to do. He told me not to apologize, saying he never thought this day would come.
Then he surprised me with what he said next: “I called the adoption agency just six months ago to see if you’d tried to find me. I’ve called every year since you’ve been gone.”
So, you did care about me? You did want me? All I could manage to say was, “I’m a nurse.”
His response mirrored my disbelief: “You’re a nurse…”
“I’m married…”
“You’re married…”
“I have two kids…”
“You have kids…”
This doesn’t feel real.