A man’s search for his medical background after being adopted leads him to discover his biological family, but their sudden and insistent outreach takes a surprising turn. Faced with a difficult decision, he must figure out whether family ties are stronger than the pain of abandonment.
The whole ordeal began on a Tuesday night, which I remember clearly. My fiancée, Vivianne, and I were on the couch discussing kids, a topic that was both exciting and intimidating.
“Imagine little ones running around here,” Vivianne said. It sounded nice, but then the practical side of me kicked in, worrying about things beyond my control.
“Yeah,” I replied, “but we don’t know much. What about my medical history? Who knows what runs in my DNA?”
Vivianne immediately understood. She knew my story. I was adopted after being abandoned like trash. I was found in an alley as a baby.
But don’t feel sorry for me—my adoptive parents were wonderful. They were always open about my origins. I’ve known since I was little.
Unfortunately, they didn’t know anything about my biological family. No one did. Even the police couldn’t find them. There wasn’t surveillance everywhere back then.
Though I didn’t feel like I was missing anything, the uncertainty around my medical history bothered me. I hadn’t thought much about it before, but with our conversations about having kids becoming more serious, it started to weigh on me.
What if there’s something in my genes that could affect my future children?
Driven by this concern, I did what anyone would do in the modern age: I ordered a 23&Me kit. It arrived a few weeks after that conversation with Vivianne.
She raised an eyebrow when I brought the box into our room. “Detective Matthew at work?” she teased.
I smiled, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement. “Yeah, like a health detective,” I joked.
“If it means we can start trying for kids, I’m all in,” she said, leaving me to take care of it.
I opened the box and read the instructions. Spitting into that tube felt oddly significant, like I was sending a part of myself into the world to uncover my past. I had to register online, too.
After mailing off my sample, we waited.
When the results arrived, I logged in and immediately realized I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t noticed that I’d made my DNA available to anyone who might match me.
I didn’t care about finding relatives; I already had a family. Still, I focused on the health information, considering potential risks to pass on to our future kids.
But a few days later, while Vivianne was out, I got a message on 23&Me with the subject line: “We think we might be related.”
I almost deleted it but noticed the sender’s name: Angela. Then I saw another message from Chris.
Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened Angela’s message.
“Hi Matthew,” it read. “I saw we matched on 23&Me. I’m your bio-sister. The whole family has been looking for you. Can you please write back?”
My stomach did a flip. I didn’t want this, but I opened Chris’s message, and it said the same thing. He mentioned my birth parents, who had five children—Angela, Chris, Eleanor, Daniel, and Michael—before me. Apparently, they had been trying to find me.
I sat at my desk, staring at the screen in disbelief. These were the people who gave me up. Why after 31 years?
I glanced at a photo of Vivianne, me, my parents, and her parents at our engagement party. That was my family, and I had no interest in my biological one.
I quickly typed two blunt replies:
To Angela: “Thanks for reaching out, but I’m not interested.”
To Chris: “Thanks for the info. Please don’t contact me again.”
I thought that was the end, but it wasn’t.
More messages came, but now the tone had changed. Angela’s latest message was dramatic.
“Matthew, our parents have regretted their decision every day. They were young and scared. They always wanted to find you but didn’t know how. Please, just give them a chance to explain.”
Chris’s message echoed the same sentiment, talking about “family is family” and “forgiveness.” I understood they saw their parents’ regret, but should it be my concern? Why should I care?
Yet as more messages came in, I felt a knot in my chest. I felt guilty for not caring.
Instead of replying, I called Vivianne.
“Hey, I’m almost done,” she said, and I told her about the messages I’d received.
“Are you going to keep responding?”
“I don’t want to,” I said.
“Then don’t. You don’t owe them anything. You were abandoned, and you have a family,” she replied.
“I just don’t get why they’re guilt-tripping me. But I’ll block them,” I said.
“Love you!” she said, and that was enough for me. I turned off notifications on the website and got up from my desk.
To my surprise, Angela and Chris found my personal email. I realized nothing is private anymore.
Their emails kept coming. Angela, Chris, and even Eleanor started bombarding me. They found my phone number and social media accounts. I was being overwhelmed.
“You owe us a chance to explain.”
“You’re being selfish. Heartless.”
“Please, don’t be cruel to our mother.”
That last one stung the most. But blocking them didn’t help. They kept creating new accounts to contact me.
I made my social media private, marked their emails as spam, and tried to move on. Finally, they stopped for a while.
Then I woke up to a text from an unknown number.
“Matthew, it’s Angela. Please don’t ignore this. Our mother is sick. Please unblock me and call me. Please. I’m begging you.”
I showed Vivianne the message.
“Maybe you should call her. Get her to stop. We can’t live like this anymore,” she sighed.
I agreed and called Angela. She answered immediately.
“Matthew! Thank you for calling!” she exclaimed.
“My mind hasn’t changed,” I said. “What can I do to get you to stop?”
“Did you read my message?” she asked. “Mom needs a liver transplant. None of us are a match. You’re our only hope.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’re a match, but you’re our last hope,” Angela pleaded.
“Stop saying that,” I said, my patience wearing thin.
“Please,” she begged. “Can we meet? The whole family, with Mom?”
I agreed to meet only to stop the harassment. I arrived at the coffee shop early and chose a secluded table.
They arrived in force, all six of them. My biological mother was there, looking frail and weak. The rest of the family followed behind.
Angela greeted me with an overly enthusiastic hug, but I stepped back, not wanting any contact.
I sat them down, and Angela began, her voice shaking. “It means so much that you’re here.”
I interrupted. “Let’s be clear, I’m here because I want you to leave me alone.”
Angela frowned, but recovered quickly. “We understand you must have many questions.”
“I have one main question,” I said, turning to my biological mother. “Do you really need a liver transplant?”
She nodded, tears filling her eyes. “Yes, son,” she whispered.
“Then I need to see the tests proving that none of your other children are a match.”
The smiles faded. Angela tried to explain, but the excuses from her siblings were weak—no one wanted to get tested.
I couldn’t believe it. Their mother’s life was at risk, but they refused to help.
Angela tried to regain control. “Can’t you see Mom is suffering? Please help her.”
I snapped. “I wanted nothing to do with you before, and now you confirm everything. My biological parents discarded me, and now her real children won’t even help her.”
Michael tried to interrupt, but I stopped him.
“I won’t save her life. I want nothing to do with any of you. If I get another message, I’ll get a restraining order.”
I turned to my biological mother, feeling some pity for her. “Thank you for abandoning me. It allowed me to find a family that would give their lives for me.”
I walked out, leaving them behind.
Later that night, Vivianne comforted me. “You did the right thing. You know that for the mother who raised you, you would have done anything.”
I nodded. I had. But the woman in that coffee shop wasn’t my mother.
I deleted my 23&Me profile, removed all social media, and changed my phone number. I made sure there was no way they could contact me again.