It was the summer of 2018 and I was power walking through the Sherman Oaks mall parking garage with my dear friend Paulette. Our husbands were waiting impatiently at the movie theater like two men who had absolutely no idea what it takes to look “casually cute.”
Yes, we were Valley Girling it.
Paulette tells me she got her Ancestry results back and surprise! She had a first cousin no one knew about. She was trying to figure out which of her father’s siblings had a secret side hustle in the ’50s.
And that’s when I felt it.
The butterflies in my belly.
Because let me give you a little background: my father was… how shall I put this… He cheated on my mother. He cheated on the woman he cheated with. I don’t think he ever met an attractive woman and thought, “No thanks, I’m good.”
If Tinder existed in the ’70s, he would have been their number one swiper.
My parents were gone. My siblings were gone. And I thought… what if?
What if Dad left me a surprise sibling as a parting gift?
That night I didn’t sleep. I lay there imagining a long-lost sister. Brother. Cousins. Maybe someone who looked like me.
The next morning I went on line and saw Ancestry was running a buy-one-get-one-free special.
Nothing says “Let’s uncover generational trauma” like a BOGO.
I bought two kits and ran to wake my husband of thirty-four years.
“Dennis. Wake up. I bought an Ancestry.com DNA kit.”
He opened one eye and said, “Nancy, I don’t believe in that crap. I would never do one of those.”
And rolled back over.
Romance isn’t dead. It’s just skeptical.
So I called my son Ryan.
“I got a deal on Ancestry.com.”
“A deal?” he said. (Millennial code for: You got a discount?)
I tell him, “Two for one.”
“I’m in.” He says.
Of course he was. If it’s discounted, he’s going for it.
When the kits arrived, I drove straight to Ryan’s apartment in Beverly Hills like I was delivering state secrets.
Now fast forward to Saturday, February 2, 2019. I’m getting a manicure and it’s raining. My phone rings. The ringtone is “Happy.” Which, in hindsight, feels aggressive.
It’s Ryan calling.
“Mom, do you know a Luann Corby?”
“No… should I?”
“I just got my DNA results. It says she’s my first cousin and a close relative.”
Close relative?
That phrase does not give an answer to a Jewish mother.
He says his girlfriend, who’s a journalist is researching her and mentions she has some young family members who passed early.
So did we.
Now I’m lightheaded.
Before I faint, I conference Dennis in.
“Do you know a Luann Corby?”
“Nope.”
We call my cousin Steven, our family genealogist. He happened to have worked with 23andMe and sat on their advisory committee because apparently our family does DNA professionally now.
He calls us back 10 minutes later.
“Ryan… she’s not your cousin. She could be your aunt. Your niece. Or your half sibling. You have too much DNA in common to be a first cousin.”
Excuse me?
I immediately stalk her on LinkedIn. She lives in Winter Haven, Florida. Two adult kids. Fifty-six years old. And she’s adorable.
Ryan schedules a call with her the next day at noon pt, right before we’re supposed to be leaving for a Super Bowl party. Because nothing goes better with guacamole than potential illegitimacy.
Noon hits. I’m on my bed staring at my phone as if it’s going to hatch.
Five minutes pass.
Ryan calls me.
I’ve never picked up a call so fast.
“Mom, she’s so nice. She was adopted at three days old. She doesn’t want to disrupt anyone’s family. She just wants answers. Can I conference her in?”
That’s my boy. “YES.”
She comes on the line in the sweetest Southern Central Florida accent.
“How y’all doin’? I don’t know how we’re related, but 23andMe says I’m 50% Jewish. I go to church every Sunday and pray to Jesus Christ my Lord and Savior. I thought they made a mistake. I’ve never even met a Jewish person. So I took Ancestry.com to prove them wrong.”
She pauses.
“Turns out I’m 50% Jewish. So I learned how to make matzah ball soup.”
At this point, I love her.
Dennis is standing next to me listening. I ask if she knows where her birth father was from.
“Des Moines, Iowa.”
I slowly turn to my husband.
The man who is from Des Moines, Iowa.
I hand him the phone.
“This call’s for you babe.”
He talks to her. Asks a few questions. Then asks if she knows the name of a woman she suspects is her birth mother.
She gives him a name.
And my husband, in shock and nearly starts crying.
“Luann… I think I’m your father.”
Turns out Dennis had what he politely calls “a wild night” his last week of high school, in the front seat of his 1956 Bel Air convertible.
1962 was apparently a very fertile year in Iowa.
Her mother’s family moved to Florida to avoid the scandal of being pregnant out of wedlock.
A few months later, Luann was born.
We flew her to California ten days later with a friend because inviting a stranger who might be your husband’s secret daughter to your house requires at least an emotional support friend and she didn’t know we could be who knows?
She walked off the plane and was the spitting image of Dennis. Same smile. Same face.
We did a paternity test.
99.6%.
Dennis had a daughter he didn’t know about for 56 years.
We had a huge family gathering. Sisters, brother, in-laws, grandkids. Everyone fell in love with her.
Was I slightly disappointed she wasn’t my long-lost sibling?
Sure.
But instead of a surprise sister, I got a bonus daughter, plus a couple extra grandkids.
And she got a loud Jewish family and matzah ball soup that didn’t come from YouTube.
She’s been ours for seven years now.
And honestly?
It feels like she’s been here forever.
We love you, Lulu.
P.S. Remember Paulette and her “mystery first cousin”? After I told her about Luann, she dug a little deeper. Turns out it wasn’t a cousin. It was her half-brother. Apparently that summer Ancestry was running a two-for-one sibling special. BTW- It’s 100% true!