I leaned back, the café air suddenly too thick. A swirl of emotions clashed inside me: anger at the secret, confusion over what it meant for us, and strangely, curiosity.
I asked gently, “Have you tried finding… well, your other family?”
The question hung in the air like fog. Sarah shook her head, gripping the paper tightly. “I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, her voice cracking with a vulnerability I hadn’t seen in her since we were kids.
I looked at her and, for the first time in years, I didn’t see the sister I’d argued with or grown apart from—I saw the scared little girl who once hid under my blanket during thunderstorms. “Then… let’s find out together,” I said, surprising even myself.
That moment marked the beginning of an unexpected journey—one not just of biology, but of healing.
We started with online genealogy tools, tracing family trees, combing through old census records and dusty digital archives. Hours slipped by in shared silence, the kind that only comes when two people are slowly relearning how to be close.
One breezy evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Sarah gasped. She’d found a potential DNA match: a distant relative living in Oregon. Her face lit up with cautious hope, the kind of hope that hurts to hold too tightly.
Over the next few days, we drafted and re-drafted a message until Sarah finally sent it. Then came the wait—tense, uncertain, and long. Until one day, a reply came.
It was from an older woman named Linda, who introduced herself as a cousin. Her response was warm but cautious. She confirmed the connection and, after a few exchanges, invited Sarah to visit.
Sarah hesitated. “What if they don’t want me? What if I’m just a reminder of something painful?”
“You’ll never know unless you try,” I told her. “And I’m coming with you.”
We booked the trip, both nervous and hopeful. On the flight to Portland, we reminisced—about our childhood games, our mom’s cinnamon pancakes, the silly songs we made up in the car. Each memory softened the years of silence between us.
When we arrived, Portland greeted us with a warm summer sun and the scent of pine in the breeze. Linda’s home was cozy and filled with life—photos lined the walls, laughter spilled from the kitchen, and the air was rich with the smell of fresh-baked cookies.
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