I grew up with a story that fit neatly on the back of a postcard.I was “found.” My birth mother “left.” My adoptive parents “saved.”
End of story. Tie a bow on it. Don’t pull the thread.
I didn’t pull it—until the day a spit tube and a clearance sale discount code yanked it for me.
I did the DNA kit for fun. Everyone at work was comparing percentages and vague Celtic triangles on maps in the break room. I wanted a pie chart too. I mailed it off and forgot about it, the way you forget a wish you whisper into a candle’s smoke.