It all started on a quiet Tuesday night. My fiancée, Vivianne, and I were curled up on the couch, talking about the future. It was one of those deep conversations where excitement and fear mixed together, making my heart race.
“Imagine little ones running around here,” Vivianne said with a dreamy smile, looking around our cozy living room.
I smiled back, but then my mind drifted to something else—something that had always been a nagging thought in the back of my mind.
“Yeah, but… there’s so much we don’t know,” I said, my voice hesitant. “Like my medical history. Who knows what runs in my DNA?”
Vivianne nodded, immediately understanding what I meant. She knew my story. I was adopted. But not in the usual way—I was abandoned as a baby. Found in an alley. No name, no record, nothing.
“I know, babe. But does it really matter?” she asked gently.
“It does now. What if there’s something genetic? What if there’s something I could pass down to our kids?” I sighed. “I just want to know.”
That thought sat heavy in my chest for days, and eventually, I did what any modern-day detective would do: I ordered a DNA kit from 23&Me. It arrived a few weeks later. When I walked into our bedroom, holding the box, Vivianne raised an eyebrow.
“Detective Matthew is on the case?” she teased, crossing her arms.
“More like a health detective,” I said, grinning.
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Well, if this means we can start trying for kids soon, I’m all for it.”
I got to work immediately. Spitting into a tube was a weirdly emotional moment. It felt like I was sending a tiny piece of myself into the unknown, hoping for answers. After sealing the sample, I mailed it off and then waited.
When the results finally arrived, I clicked through my profile, eager to see if there were any genetic risks. But then I realized I had made a huge mistake.
I had accidentally made my DNA public. That meant any biological relatives could find me.
I groaned, feeling stupid. I didn’t care about finding long-lost family. My adoptive parents were my real family. But what was done was done, so I brushed it off and focused on the health part.
That should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t.
A few days later, while Vivianne was out shopping, my phone buzzed. A new message from 23&Me popped up with the subject line: “We think we might be related.”
I almost ignored it. But then I saw the sender’s name: Angela. And another one right after, from someone named Chris.
Curiosity won.
I opened Angela’s message first.
“Hi Matthew,
I just saw that we matched on 23&Me. I’m your bio-sister. Our whole family has been looking for you for years. Can you please write back?”
My stomach clenched.
I opened Chris’s message next. It was similar but had more details. He mentioned our birth parents. Apparently, they had five kids before me—Angela, Chris, Eleanor, Daniel, and Michael. They had been trying to track me down for years.
I sat there, staring at the screen. My birth family. The people who abandoned me. Why now? After thirty-one years?
My eyes drifted to the framed photo on my desk. Vivianne, my adoptive parents, and me at our engagement party. That was my real family. Not these strangers.
Without hesitation, 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 was the end of it. I was wrong.
Minutes later, more messages flooded in. The tone had changed. Angela’s new message was desperate.
“Matthew, please. Our parents have regretted their decision every single day. They were young and scared, with five kids to feed. They always wanted to find you. Just give them a chance to explain.”
Chris followed up with, “Family is family. You need to understand their side of the story. Please don’t shut us out.”
I felt a weird pang in my chest. Guilt? Anger? I wasn’t sure.
Instead of responding, I called Vivianne.
“Hey, honey,” she answered. “I’m almost done with groceries. What’s up?”
“You’re not gonna believe this,” I said, filling her in.
“Are you going to keep responding?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t,” she said firmly. “Honey, you don’t owe them anything. They abandoned you. You have a family.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll block them. See you soon.”
But blocking them didn’t stop them. Somehow, they found my personal email. My phone number. My social media. The messages became relentless.
“You owe us a chance to explain.”
“You’re being selfish. Heartless.”
“Our parents deserve to know you. You’re being cruel to our poor mother.”
Finally, one morning, I woke up to a text from an unknown number.
“Matthew, it’s Angela. Please don’t ignore this. Mom is sick. She needs a liver transplant. None of us are a match. You’re her only hope.”
I showed Vivianne the message.
“Maybe you should call her,” she sighed. “Get them to stop. We can’t live like this.”
So I did. Angela answered on the second ring.
“Matthew! Thank you for calling!”
“Listen,” I said, cutting to the chase. “What can I do to make this stop?”
“Mom is sick. She needs a liver transplant. Please, you’re her last chance.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know I’m a match?”
“We don’t. But you might be. Please, just meet us.”
I agreed. Not for them, but to end this.
At the coffee shop, they arrived in force. My biological mother sat across from me, looking frail. Angela and Chris flanked her, the other three hovered awkwardly.
“Let’s be clear,” I said. “I’m here to get you all to leave me alone.”
Angela nodded quickly. “Of course. But please, Mom is really sick.”
“Show me proof that none of you are matches. All five of you.”
The room shifted. Angela fidgeted. Chris’s jaw tightened.
“Well, about that…” Angela started, stalling.
Chris snapped, “If you’re a match, why make everyone else go through the hassle?”
“A simple blood test is a hassle when your mother’s life is at stake?” I asked coldly.
Silence. Then mumbled excuses. Fear of needles. Work obligations. Weak justifications.
That was all I needed.
I stood, looking at each of them. “I wanted nothing to do with you before, and now I know I made the right choice. My real family would do anything for me. You? You can’t even get a simple test.”
Angela opened her mouth to protest, but I wasn’t interested.
“If you contact me again, I’ll get a lawyer. And a restraining order.”
Then I turned to my biological mother. “Thank you for leaving me in that alley. It gave me a real family.”
And with that, I walked away. I didn’t look back.
That night, Vivianne held my hand. “You did the right thing.”
I nodded. I deleted my DNA profile, changed my number, and erased every trace of myself from the internet.
As far as they were concerned, I was gone forever.