November 4. The day after the DNA results came in. Early afternoon. My cell phone rings. Caller ID registers – it is her. My mother. My mother is calling me. I can barely breathe. For a fraction of a second I consider letting her leave me a voicemail, then dismiss that as utterly unthinkable. She is calling me, and I am aching to hear her voice. I answer. I know it is her but I do not say so, I just say ‘Hello’. I can hear her nervousness before she even speaks. She gives her name, hesitantly. I say again, hello… and berate myself: damn it, I should have thought out what I was going to say to her. I stammer probably incoherently, no idea what actually came out of my mouth, then I say ‘I’m so happy you called me.’ My throat is full and my eyes fill with tears, not for the first time and not for the last, and I wish that I had thought to pop in my headset so I didn’t have to be holding this clunky brick to my face. We both take deep breaths that are palpable to each other and so it begins.
We talk for almost two hours, not nearly enough time but enough for the first time.
It is November 4. Less than a month since the day I discovered. I am incredibly lucky.