As a writer, I disliked large-scale changes. But I would have to revise the final manuscript of my life. My family was still my family, and my loving parents were long gone, making this slightly less complicated. Nothing had changed but everything was different. I had known plenty of my family’s secrets, but this time the secret was me. The donor had been a resident at Yale New Haven Hospital, where scientists were pioneering intrauterine insemination. But within a few hours, we had both spoken to family members who told us the secret they had promised our parents they would take to the grave: Our fathers had been infertile, and we had been conceived from donor sperm. Indeed, it took us about half a minute to awkwardly theorize: My adored father must have had an affair with this fellow’s mother. I had taken a 23andMe test the year before.ĭialing his number, I knew we wouldn’t start with small talk. We had been born a year apart five decades earlier. We even had the same tiny dimple on our nose tips. Can you please call me?”Īs I stared at his profile photo, I saw that we looked like twins. One Friday morning in 2019, I awoke in Brooklyn to an email from a guy in Florida that read: “23andMe says you’re my half sister.
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