‘Towels, check… Sunscreen, check… Water, check…’ My youngest daughter Anna and I are heading to the beach.

‘Paternity test, check…’ I throw the box on top of the bag.

‘This family is beyond weird.’ My daughter rolls her eyes.

I have arranged to meet Antonio back at the Dunkin’ Donuts car park to get a sample of his saliva – I’m just glad he is open to this. My daughter waits in the car as I step out and he says hello to her, his granddaughter. I watch her face: she is serious and unusually quiet, observing the scene.

‘I’ve done this before, with Michelle. I know how to do it,’ he says as he opens the test and swabs the inside of his cheek before sealing it up.

‘Let me know what it says, okay?’ He is smiling as he leaves. My daughter has been quietly watching the whole time.

‘It’s definitely him,’ she says. ‘You’re just like him.’

I’ve been calling Pat to keep her updated and I send her a photo of Antonio.

‘It’s him,’ she replies. ‘I told you he was handsome. He doesn’t remember me, does he?’ I know she’s upset, I don’t know what to say.

‘He’s having a hard time remembering that you told him you were pregnant. I’m sure it will come back to him soon,’ I say, hoping to reassure her.

‘Well, I told him. I know what I said, and I know what his response was – it wasn’t nice.’

I feel stuck between the excitement of meeting my father and trying to support Pat. I can see her pain resurfacing – I can’t blame her for being angry.

A few days later the paternity test company calls me. I’m told that the test won’t work with just Antonio’s sample, they need my mother to complete a test to determine if he’s my father. Sometimes this happens; it depends on what DNA the child carries from each parent. I call Pat and tell her I’m sending her the kit, and ask her to courier it back to the company in the States. She agrees, but I sense she’s still struggling.

Every day I check to see if the company has received her package. Then I find out she didn’t use a courier, but sent it through the Post Office. I’ve lost all patience. Why is the universe testing me like this? I can’t help but feel angry towards her – it’s like she’s trying to stall things on purpose.

‘I asked you to courier it, I don’t know why you couldn’t do that for me. This will take weeks, I can’t wait weeks.’

‘We know it’s him. I don’t understand why you can’t wait. The courier place was too far away, I did what I thought was best.’

‘We know it’s him, but he isn’t convinced. I need this, I can’t wait anymore.’

‘You’ve waited years. What’s a few more days?’

I knew in some ways she was right, but I needed him to acknowledge me. I can’t seem to focus on anything so I check the tracking number again. The paternity test is stuck in Customs. I phone Chicago and they tell me the package could be there for weeks.

I call the paternity test company and they suggest that this time they send the package to Pat direct in England. I have to pay another $200, but I don’t care.

‘Another kit is on its way. All you have to do is take the test. The postage is paid, and there’s a DHL box near your house,’ I text before giving her directions.

I send her a second text: ‘Pat, I want you to know that I understand this is bringing up a lot of stuff for you. Thank you for doing this.’

I know she’s still angry that Antonio doesn’t remember her. She was seventeen years old, a child herself. She was the one who had to carry me; she was the one who was made to give me up. How any mother is able to function after such a trauma is hard to imagine. I think you would have to switch off a part of yourself just to survive.

* * *

It’s now been three weeks since the beginning of the paternity test ordeal but Pat finally tells me she’s sent her sample back. Antonio has even called a couple of times. He still sounds unconvinced. My friends are texting me, asking if I’ve heard anything – they’re as anxious as I am.

I turn my phone off for a while – I need a break from my thoughts. I keep wondering if the Ancestry website has made a mistake. I did, however, buy another DNA test. I drove back to meet Antonio at Dunkin’ Donuts. This time we go inside, as he has to spit in the vial. I repeat the information that my birth mother has told me. I show him a photo of me as a little girl. He studies it for a long time; he has gone silent.

‘Why don’t I remember? Don’t you think I would remember if a woman told me she was pregnant with my child?’

I shrug my shoulders.

‘I don’t know what to think anymore,’ I say to him.

As I leave, he says, ‘Well, maybe we’re related, maybe we aren’t. I’m glad to have met you either way. Let me know as soon as you know, okay?’

‘Antonio,’ I smile. ‘You will be the first one I call.’

I drive home in the intense summer heat. What if the paternity test fails? What if there’s a problem, and he never believes that I’m his daughter?

* * *

The girls are staying with their father that night so I’m alone and glad of it – I’m finding it hard to be focused and present as a mother right now. I’ve hidden how I feel from the children, from a lot of people, but how can I explain what it feels like to sit with this man I know is my father, and for him to still be unsure? I’m still battling with the fact he didn’t remember Pat, my whole conception.

Friends tell me, ‘But you know it’s him.’

But I need him to know in his heart that I’m his daughter.

I lie on my bed; it’s late. I’m starting to have that old familiar feeling, the one I had as a little girl when some nights I would feel sadness take over me for no apparent reason. I felt the same way when I met my birth mother, when I looked at my new babies, when I sat holding my adoptive mother’s hand as she passed away. It’s still there now, my familiar companion: I want to be acknowledged, I want Antonio to believe me, regardless of any tests.

I stand up and walk around my room. Suddenly I’m overcome by a sudden urge to annihilate myself; it consumes me. I picture myself walking the streets of New York, looking for drugs. The pull to use is the strongest it has been in my many years of sobriety. In this moment, I want to destroy myself: the pain has gone on for too many years, I can’t do it anymore – I’m feeling so much and for the first time I see the direct connection between my addiction and my adoption experience. I know I do have a choice, but I just want to get so out of my mind that I never have to feel any of this again. I’m so tired too.

I can’t breathe. Somehow I manage to send a group text to some adoptee friends – I know if I don’t reach out to someone, I’ll hurt myself. I’m a mother, I have to think of my children.

‘I want to use. I think I’m having a panic attack,’ I manage to text.

My phone rings but I can’t speak. I hear the gentle voice of Cathy, a fellow adoptee.

‘Zara, you spent time with your father today. I know what it’s like to be around our blood connection and feel a sense of familiarity that we’ve never had before. It’s so joyous, but it brings up so much grief and pain.’

I have no words – I feel like I’ve burrowed down into my very core. Once I start crying, I can’t stop. Cathy’s so kind. She gets me to breathe and allows me to howl down the phone. Finally, I hear myself speak.

‘I need him to know who I am – he had no idea I existed. All those years of wondering if he thought about me, I can’t wait any longer. I know Pat is upset with me. I can’t be in the middle again, protecting her from the harsh reality that he didn’t remember her, that he didn’t know about me; protecting his wife. I feel like I have to apologise for my existence – sorry, everyone, for being such an annoyance, a mistake. Sorry to my mum, for wanting to know my birth mother. Sorry, Dad, for needing to know my birth father. I’m so fucking tired of this fucking role! I can’t do it anymore, I don’t want to be a secret.’

I know I sound self–pitying, but I don’t care.

‘I want him to want me. I want him to shout from the rooftops about it, the way I want to. Is that too much to ask?’

I hear my friend laugh and I’m grateful. The desire to use drugs is passing and instead a fatigue has taken over. For the first time, I have reached out to people and let them see my deepest pain. How many times have I done this alone? I don’t want to do it anymore.

The next morning, I’m out running errands when I check my phone and see that there’s an email from the paternity test people: my results are in. I want to read it right now, but decide to wait until I’m home. I can’t get home fast enough. I pull up to my house and charge upstairs.

I click on the link.

I’m scared, but I have to know.

Father: Antonio P. is not excluded as the biological father. 99.9 percent.

Mother: Patricia G.

Baby: Zara Phillips.

 

It’s him! It’s really him. For the first time in my life, I see all three of our names together on one page. All three of us woven together, three strangers, connected. A deep sense of relief washes over me.