It all started on a quiet Tuesday night. I remember it so clearly. My fiancée, Vivianne, and I were curled up on the couch, lost in one of our deep conversations. This time, it was about kids—a subject that filled me with both excitement and a nagging sense of worry.
“Imagine little ones running around here,” Vivianne said, her eyes sparkling with dreams of the future.
It was a nice thought. But my mind always raced toward the things I couldn’t control.
“Yeah,” I replied hesitantly, “but there’s so much we don’t know. And what about my medical history? Who knows what runs in my DNA?”
Vivianne gave me a knowing look. She understood. She always did. My past wasn’t a mystery to her. I had been adopted after being abandoned as a baby—found in an alley, left with nothing.
Before you start feeling sorry for me, know this: my adoptive parents were incredible. They never hid the truth from me. I had known since I was a child that I wasn’t biologically theirs. But they loved me fiercely, and honestly, I never felt like I was missing anything… except for one thing: my medical history.
No one, not even the police, had been able to track down my biological family. And while I had never felt the need to find them, the thought of having kids of my own suddenly made it impossible to ignore. What if I carried something genetic? Something that could affect my future children?
That night, I made a decision. I ordered a 23&Me DNA test. Just a simple kit that might hold the answers I needed.
When the package arrived a few weeks later, I held it in my hands like it was a ticking time bomb. Vivianne raised an eyebrow. “Detective Matthew at work again?” she teased.
I smirked. “Yeah, a health detective,” I corrected.
“Well, if it means we can start trying for a baby, then I’m all for it,” she said, giving me a wink before heading to the kitchen.
I ripped open the box and followed the instructions. Spitting into a tiny tube felt oddly symbolic, like I was sending a part of myself into the unknown. I registered on the website, completed the necessary steps, and then mailed off my sample.
And then, we waited.
Weeks later, my results finally arrived. I logged into the website, eager to find out what was lurking in my genes. But as I skimmed through my health reports, something else caught my eye—something I hadn’t anticipated.
I had made a mistake.
Somehow, while setting up my profile, I had opted into the “find relatives” feature. That meant anyone who shared my DNA could reach out to me.
I didn’t care about finding long-lost family. I already had a family. But as I dismissed the thought and returned to reading about possible genetic risks, an unexpected notification popped up on my screen.
A message.
Subject: “We think we might be related.”
I almost deleted it. But then I saw the sender’s name: Angela. And another one right after, from someone named Chris.
Curious, I opened Angela’s message first.
“Hi Matthew, I just saw that we matched on 23&Me. I’m your biological sister. Our family has been searching for you for years. Please, write back.”
My stomach twisted. I wasn’t expecting this. I clicked on Chris’s message, and it said pretty much the same thing. He mentioned that my birth parents had five children before me—Angela, Chris, Eleanor, Daniel, and Michael. Apparently, they had been looking for me all this time.
I sat there, staring at the screen, unable to process it. Why now? After 31 years?
I glanced at a framed photo on my desk. It was from our engagement party, a picture of me, Vivianne, my parents, and her parents. My real family.
I had no interest in reconnecting with the people who had abandoned me.
So, I typed two quick replies.
To Angela: “Thanks for reaching out, but I’m not interested.”
To Chris: “Thank you for the information. But please don’t contact me again.”
I thought that would be the end of it.
I was wrong.
More messages flooded in, their tone shifting from hopeful to insistent.
“Matthew, our parents regret their decision every single day. They were young, scared, and overwhelmed. They always wanted to find you. Please, give them a chance.”
“You have a family, Matthew. We are your blood. Family is family.”
Guilt tugged at me, but I pushed it away. I didn’t owe them anything.
Instead of replying, I called Vivianne.
“Hey, babe,” she answered. “I’m just finishing up at the store. What’s up?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” I sighed. I told her everything—the DNA results, the messages, the sudden flood of relatives demanding my attention.
“Are you going to respond?” she asked.
“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t,” she reassured me. “You don’t owe them anything. They abandoned you. You have a family.” I heard the car engine start. “I’ll be home in five.”
“Love you,” I said before hanging up.
I turned off all notifications. But somehow, Angela and Chris found my personal email. Then my phone number. Then my social media.
The messages became relentless.
“You’re being cruel. Our mother deserves to know you.”
“You owe us a chance to explain.”
“How can you be so heartless?”
I blocked them. But they made new accounts. It was endless.
Then, one morning, I woke up to a text from an unknown number.
“Matthew, it’s Angela. Please, don’t ignore this. Our mother is sick. She needs a liver transplant. You’re our last hope.”
I showed the message to Vivianne.
She sighed. “Maybe you should meet them. Get them to stop. We can’t live like this forever.”
Reluctantly, I agreed.
I met them at a coffee shop. Angela, Chris, and my biological mother arrived first, the others trailing behind. My “mother” had watery, red-rimmed eyes.
“Matthew, thank you for coming,” Angela said, smiling. She reached out as if to hug me, but I stepped back.
I cut straight to the point. “Do you really need a transplant?”
She nodded weakly. “Yes, son. Without it…”
“Then show me the tests proving none of your other kids are a match.”
Unease spread across their faces.
“Well, it’s complicated…” Angela hesitated.
Chris jumped in. “If you’re a match, why does it matter?”
“A simple blood test is too much of a hassle?” I shot back.
Excuses spilled from their lips—”I hate needles,” “I’m busy with work.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You all abandoned me, and now you’re abandoning her. But I’m supposed to save her?” I stood, looking them in the eye. “If I get another message, I will get a lawyer.”
I turned to my biological mother. “Thank you for leaving me in that alley. It gave me a real family.”
Then I walked out without looking back.
That night, Vivianne held my hand. “You did the right thing,” she whispered. “For your real family, you would have done anything. But they were never your family.”
I deleted my 23&Me profile. Changed my number. Blocked them everywhere.
And just like that, I was free.
