It all started on a quiet Tuesday night. My fiancée, Vivianne, and I were curled up on the couch, talking about something that was both thrilling and terrifying: kids.
“Imagine little ones running around here,” she said, smiling as she leaned into me.
I chuckled, picturing tiny feet pattering across the hardwood floors. But then, my practical side kicked in. “Yeah, but… there’s so much we don’t know. What about my medical history? Who knows what runs in my DNA?”
Vivianne’s smile softened, and she nodded. She understood. She knew my story. I had been abandoned as a baby—literally left in an alley. But before you feel sorry for me, know this: my adoptive parents were incredible.
They gave me a life filled with love, warmth, and honesty. From as early as I could remember, they were upfront about my adoption. The only thing they didn’t know was where I came from. No records, no information, no traces of my biological family. It was as if I had just appeared out of nowhere.
For the most part, it didn’t bother me. I had never felt like I was missing something. But as the idea of having kids became more real, uncertainty crept in. What if something dangerous was hiding in my genes? What if I passed something down to my children without even knowing it?
So, I did what any modern-day person would do—I ordered a 23&Me kit. When it arrived, Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “Detective Matthew at work again?”
I grinned. “More like a health detective.”
“Well,” she said playfully, “if this means we can finally start trying for a baby, I’m all for it.”
I took the test seriously. Spitting into the little tube felt weirdly significant—like I was sending a tiny piece of myself into the universe to uncover secrets I never asked for. After mailing it off, I tried to put it out of my mind.
When the results finally came, I was excited but mostly focused on the health reports. But then, I realized I had made a mistake. While signing up, I had unknowingly made my DNA profile visible to anyone who matched me.
That wasn’t my goal. I didn’t care about finding long-lost relatives. My family was already complete. But it was too late. Within days, messages started pouring into my inbox.
One subject line caught my attention: “We think we might be related.”
I almost deleted it, but the sender’s name made me pause. Angela. And right below that, another message from someone named Chris.
Curious, I clicked on Angela’s message first.
“Hi Matthew, I just saw that we matched on 23&Me. I’m your biological sister. Our family has been looking for you for years. Please write back!”
My stomach flipped. I stared at the screen, then hesitantly opened Chris’s message. It was nearly identical, but he also included more details. My birth parents had five children—Angela, Chris, Eleanor, Daniel, and Michael—before me. They had been searching for me, but for some reason, had never found me.
I sat there, unmoving, for ten minutes. Why now? Why, after 31 years, were they suddenly interested?
I glanced at the family portrait on my desk—a picture of Vivianne, my parents, and her parents at our engagement party. That was my family. Not these strangers.
I typed quick, blunt replies.
To Angela: “Thanks for reaching out, but I’m not interested.”
To Chris: “Thank you for the information. Please don’t contact me again.”
I thought that was the end of it. I was wrong.
More messages came almost instantly. The tone had changed.
“Matthew, our parents regret everything. They were young and scared. Please just hear them out.”
“Family is family. Forgiveness is important.”
I wasn’t buying it. If they had truly been looking for me all these years, why was this the first time I was hearing from them?
Instead of responding, I called Vivianne.
“Honey, you’re not going to believe this,” I said, relaying the entire situation.
“Are you going to keep responding?” she asked.
“I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t. You don’t owe them anything.”
She was right. I blocked them, turned off my notifications, and moved on.
Or so I thought.
Days later, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
“Matthew, it’s Angela. Please don’t ignore this. We need to talk. Our mother is sick. She needs a liver transplant. You might be her only hope.”
I showed Vivianne the message. She sighed. “Maybe you should meet them. If only to get them to stop.”
I reluctantly agreed.
At the coffee shop, they arrived in full force—six of them, led by my biological mother. She looked fragile, eyes red-rimmed and watery.
“Matthew!” Angela beamed. “I’m so glad you came!”
I stepped back as she moved to hug me. “Let’s sit.”
We settled at the table, tension thick in the air. Angela took the lead.
“Matthew, we’ve wanted to find you for so long,” she said.
“Let’s be clear,” I cut in. “I’m here for one reason—to make you stop harassing me. So let’s get to the point. Does she really need a liver transplant?”
My biological mother’s lip trembled. “Yes, son. Without it, I won’t survive.”
“Then show me the test results,” I said. “Prove that none of your other five children are a match.”
Silence.
Angela’s eyes darted nervously. Chris clenched his jaw. Eleanor shifted uncomfortably.
“Well… it’s complicated,” Angela stammered.
“Complicated how?” I pressed.
Chris snapped, “Look, if you’re a match, why make everyone go through the hassle?”
“A blood test is a hassle? When your mother’s life is on the line?” I scoffed.
Eleanor mumbled, “I don’t do well with hospitals.”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Yeah, work is crazy. I can’t take time off for surgery.”
Michael just nodded silently.
I laughed coldly. “So, let me get this straight. Your mother, who raised you, is dying, and none of you can be bothered to get tested? But you expect me, the one she abandoned, to save her?”
Angela tried again. “Matthew, she’s still your mother.”
“No,” I said, standing up. “She’s not. I will not be the one to save her. If I hear from any of you again, I will get a restraining order.”
I turned to leave but paused. Looking my biological mother in the eye, I said, “Thank you for abandoning me. It gave me the chance to find a real family. I wish you luck.”
I walked out without looking back.
That night, I told Vivianne everything. She squeezed my hand. “You did the right thing. If your real mom needed you, you would have done anything. But she wasn’t your mother.”
She was right.
The next day, I deleted my 23&Me profile, changed my number, and locked down my social media.
Some doors are meant to stay closed.
