This whole mess started on a regular Tuesday night. I remember it clearly. My fiancée, Vivianne, and I were curled up on the couch, talking about our future, the kind of life we wanted, and, of course, kids. The thought of having little feet running around the house was both thrilling and terrifying.
“Imagine tiny versions of us playing in the living room,” Vivianne mused, her eyes twinkling.
It was a heartwarming thought, but then the practical side of my brain kicked in. The part that always worried about things beyond my control.
“Yeah,” I said hesitantly, “but there’s so much we don’t know. Like my medical history. What if something runs in my DNA that I don’t even know about?”
Vivianne nodded immediately, her expression softening. She knew my story. I had been abandoned as a baby—literally left in an alley—before being adopted by the most loving parents imaginable. They never hid the truth from me. I always knew I was adopted, but the details about my biological family? Nonexistent.
The police had found no records. No clues. Nothing. Back then, there weren’t security cameras everywhere like today, so whoever left me vanished without a trace.
I never felt like I was missing anything. I had a family who loved me. But lately, the uncertainty about my medical history had started to gnaw at me. What if there was something hidden in my genetics that could impact my future children?
So, I did what any modern-day person would do: I ordered a 23&Me kit.
When the box arrived, I walked into our bedroom holding it up like a detective revealing a crucial piece of evidence.
“Detective Matthew is on the case?” Vivianne teased.
I grinned. “More like a health detective.”
She shrugged playfully. “Well, if this means we can finally start trying for a baby, I’m all for it.”
That night, I followed the instructions, spit into the little tube, and registered my sample online. It felt oddly significant—like I was sending a tiny piece of myself into the universe, hoping for answers. Then, all I had to do was wait.
Weeks passed. Then, one day, my results came in. I eagerly logged onto the website, excited to see my health risks. But as I navigated through the pages, I realized something that made my stomach drop.
I had accidentally made myself available to DNA matches.
I hadn’t meant to. I didn’t care about relatives. My family was already complete. But now, anyone biologically linked to me could see me.
At first, I brushed it off and focused on the health analysis. The results were mostly fine. Nothing alarming. No hidden genetic landmines. It was a relief.
But then… the messages started.
Vivianne had just stepped out for a grocery run when a notification popped up in my inbox. The subject line read: “We think we might be related.”
I almost ignored it, but then I saw the sender’s name: Angela.
And right below it? Another message from someone named Chris.
Curiosity got the best of me. I opened Angela’s email first.
“Hi Matthew, I just saw that we matched on 23&Me. I’m your biological sister. Our whole family has been searching for you for years. Please write back.”
I felt my stomach twist.
Chris’s message was almost identical, except he listed names: my birth parents and four other siblings—Angela, Chris, Eleanor, Daniel, and Michael. They had been trying to track me down for years.
I sat there, staring at the screen, frozen. These were the people who abandoned me. Why now? Why after 31 years?
I glanced at a framed picture on my desk. It was from our engagement party—Vivianne, me, my parents, and her parents, all smiling. That was my family.
I had no interest in my biological relatives.
So, I wrote two quick 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 would be the end of it.
I was wrong.
Minutes later, more messages poured in. The tone had changed. Angela’s new email was filled with emotion.
“Matthew, our parents regretted their decision every single day. They were young, scared, and already had five children. Please, just give them a chance to explain.”
Chris’s email was similar. “Family is family. Forgiveness is important.”
I understood they wanted closure. But was it my responsibility to give it to them? The guilt started creeping in, but I pushed it away.
Instead of replying, I called Vivianne.
“Babe, you’re not going to believe this,” I said, explaining the situation.
“Are you going to respond?” she asked.
“I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t. You don’t owe them anything, Matthew. They abandoned you. Your real family is here.”
That was all I needed to hear. I blocked their emails and shut off notifications.
But they didn’t stop.
They found my personal email. My phone number. My social media accounts.
Messages flooded in.
“You owe us a chance to explain.”
“You’re being cruel to our poor mother.”
“She’s sick. She needs you.”
That last one made my blood run cold.
Then, an unknown number texted me.
“Matthew, it’s Angela. Please don’t ignore this. Mom needs a liver transplant. None of us are a match. You’re her last hope.”
I showed Vivianne. She sighed. “Maybe you should meet them. Get them to stop.”
So, I agreed.
At the coffee shop, they arrived in force. My birth mother looked fragile, eyes red-rimmed.
“Matthew!” Angela beamed, moving to hug me. I stepped back.
“Let’s be clear,” I said, my tone clipped. “I’m here so you’ll leave me alone. Now, do you have proof that none of you are a match?”
Silence.
Chris fidgeted. “Look, if you’re a match, problem solved. Why make us go through testing?”
Eleanor mumbled, “I’m afraid of hospitals.”
Daniel muttered, “I’ve got work.”
Michael just nodded.
I was done.
“I wanted nothing to do with you before, and now you’ve confirmed why. You abandoned me. Now, her ‘real’ children won’t even get tested. And you expect me to step up? No. If I get another message, I’ll get a lawyer.”
I turned to my biological mother. “Thank you for abandoning me. It gave me the family I was meant to have.”
And I walked away.
That night, Vivianne squeezed my hand. “You did the right thing. You would have done anything for the mother who raised you. But she wasn’t your mother.”
I deleted my 23&Me account. Changed my phone number. Blocked them everywhere.
And I never looked back.
