Brooke Boswell's Story

I was adopted at two days old. My parents (mostly my mother) always made sure to celebrate both my birthday and my adoption day. I had books and plaques with sweet poems about being special and wanted. I also had an appreciation for the sacrifices my biological mother made to give me a better life.

On my 18th birthday, my mom told me that my birth mother had been a very young teen. She told me where I was born and the probable last name of my birth mother, which she had accidentally overheard. My mom also swore me to secrecy, since my dad did not want me to know any of these details. He did not think it was necessary.

Fast forward to 1994, when my first child was born. I finally had a biological connection who looked like me, which fueled my search. It took me six years on dial-up internet to find potential clues. I would get close, hit a wall, then start over the next day. Searchers helped me from time to time, but since the adoption had been private, details seemed nearly impossible to uncover.

Finally, I found a man who had been married to a young woman I had been tracking. I thought he might possibly know if that woman had given up a child for adoption in 1969. Their marriage lasted from 1974 to 1978, and I assumed he might not even want to speak with me if their divorce circumstances were negative. I waited six months before finally leaving a message on his machine. He never seemed to answer the phone, so I wondered if he would even return my call.

Three hours after my message, he called back and said, “I know you are looking for your Momma, but you have just found your Dad.” Stunned, I listened as he briefly told me the details of their relationship, their families, their interests, and that he had already contacted my mom, who also wanted to talk to me.

The next evening, I spoke with her, and just a few months later, we met in Miami. She was flying to Florida on business, and it was the first time in her life she had ever flown or been to Florida. The timing of her trip could not have been more perfect. Meeting her was the most incredible experience of my life. There are no words to describe the emotions, and we both felt the same.

I learned many details about her relationship with my father: the ups and downs, my conception when she was barely 15, and the pressure she felt from his family to relinquish me. Over the following decades, I communicated with both biological parents, though the relationships were quite awkward, for lack of a better word. My mother often communicated with me through her best friend, and her husband was very kind, sending me emails and pictures.

In 2010, my biological father sadly took his own life, which left me wondering even more about the backstories I may never know.

Fast forward to 2022 and my family history DNA account. For whatever reason, the paternal side of my tree was filled in with the names I had been given, but there were no DNA matches. I thought this was odd but did not dwell on it. Then one Friday afternoon, I logged on to view a “new DNA match,” expecting another distant cousin, only to discover it was a 100 percent match to my biological father. Only then did I discover that the man I thought was my birth father previously had not been my biological father after all.

This story is still being written. It is complicated and emotional, puzzling and overwhelming. I met my true father in August of this year, after three years of waiting, wondering, worrying, and rationalizing whether or not I should do it. It has been one of the happiest moments of my life.

I now have a large paternal family with five half siblings, all of whom love and accept me. I adore them, too. This journey has helped mend the broken pieces of my heart. Adoptees are often left to cope with emotions no one else can see. My adoptive parents did not support my search, even though I wanted to share it with them. I felt guilty for wanting to know my own roots, heritage, and family stories, but I was expected to adopt those of my non-biological family.

I do not carry that guilt anymore. Finally, at age 55, I have a real identity.