This all started one Tuesday night when my fiancée, Vivianne, and I were talking about having kids. The idea sounded great, but I worried about my medical history, having been adopted and knowing little about my biological family. To find out more, I ordered a 23andMe kit. When the results came back, I accidentally made my DNA available to anyone who matched. Soon after, I received messages from people claiming to be my biological family. At first, I ignored them, but they kept sending guilt-tripping messages, and soon they found my personal details.
Despite my desire to shut them out, I eventually took a call from Angela, who claimed my birth mother was sick and needed a liver transplant. They begged me to help, but I was skeptical. I agreed to meet them at a coffee shop, where I learned that none of her children had tested as a match. They gave weak excuses for why they couldn’t help. After a heated exchange, I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with them and wouldn’t save their mother. I walked out, telling Vivianne everything. She supported my decision, knowing I’d do anything for the mother who raised me. I deleted my 23andMe profile, wiped my social media, and changed my number, hoping they’d leave me alone for good.
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