There is nothing sweeter in life than London at Christmas time. This year I’m visiting with all my children and I’m so excited. We’re going to see my adoptive father for Christmas Eve, as well as my birth mother, my aunts and my nieces and nephews. I’m also going to meet one of my new brothers for the first time.

I had already spoken to this brother on the phone. Allessandro was Antonio’s fourth child, the youngest, and he is a well-established artist in London. I’m thrilled that we have our love of the arts in common. He understands how I feel because he didn’t get to grow up with his birth father either.

I’m glad I have my children with me as we make the long drive to his house. It’s Boxing Day and Allessandro’s whole family and his wife’s family will be there too. As soon as he found out about my existence he was so supportive and so happy to have us come and meet everyone. I’m the surprise again, the stranger who happens to be his sister.

I’m nervous, joking with the kids that finally I don’t have to meet a new family member on my own as we arrive at the house and Allessandro comes to the door. I feel awkward, unsure of what to say, but I’m immediately overwhelmed by his height, his handsome face; his eyes so much like mine. He welcomes us in and I notice how his whole family is staring: we look so much alike. We compare hands and features; we both realise how much we take after Antonio.

The day is perfect. We are all seated around a large kitchen table, the conversation flowing easily. The atmosphere is so warm and welcoming, I am overcome once more by the feeling of connection.

At the end of the day, I’m sad to leave them – I wish I could spend more time talking to my brother, but we need to go and see my dad. I’m still wondering whether or not to tell him about Antonio. I’ve lived my whole life burdened with secrets. I had lovers that no one could know about. I had family members that didn’t know about me. I’ve kept secrets from my adoptive family. Even I was a secret… I feel weary from carrying them all.

When I see him, my father looks thinner. He’s struggling to move around even more. I decide not to tell him. What’s the point of telling him at this stage in his life? Do I want this for him, or for myself? I’m not sure anymore.

* * *

Late one evening, Cassie comes over to the house we are looking after in London while my friend is away. The kids are in their rooms, watching movies. We sit on the big sofa, cups of tea in hand.

‘The whole thing is just so odd,’ I tell her sleepily. ‘I mean, think of all the men we’ve shagged!’

‘Between us?’ she says. ‘I shudder with horror.’

‘But that’s what I mean. If we had ended up pregnant with one of them, we’d have no idea who the father was.’

‘Probably not.’

‘What I mean is, those liaisons weren’t about love. They were because of lust, or alcohol.’ My voice is pensive. ‘I had wanted my conception to be something more than just two young people fooling around. When I hear other adopted people say their birth parents were madly in love, I almost feel jealous.’

‘Why does that matter?’ Cassie looks at me steadily.

‘Because somehow I always knew I was a mistake. I’ve never felt like I had the same right to exist as everyone else. I know it sounds dramatic, but I feel like a second-class citizen, I just wanted to be the product of love.’

‘Oh, Zara!’ Cassie says earnestly. ‘You have a life full of love. Look at everything you have. I wish you knew how much the people in your life care about you.’

‘I do, Cassie. At least, I’m finally beginning to.”

‘Then that has to be enough.’

* * *

I knew she was right: it was time to rid myself of the burden that I had carried for so long. I was loved; my life was full of it. The divorce had knocked the wind out of me, but I was finally ready to let it go. It was time to forgive myself for my mistakes. ‘What’s done is done’, I had read recently. I had found those gentle words so comforting. I couldn’t change what I had done in my marriage, all the mistakes I’d made: what was done was done.

Divorce is a lot like a death in the family. Yet instead of only remembering their good qualities the way we do when someone passes away, in divorce the beautiful memories become hidden. It’s too painful to remember our family as it once was, whole and happy. But as I lay in the small, lumpy bed, I realised that if I kept punishing myself, I would never be able to allow those good memories to return. I needed to remember the good times, and so did my children.

As I fall asleep, a forgotten memory surfaces: Kevin and I are on the beach with the children. Samuel is about six, Katie and Anna a few years younger. We’re all building a huge sandcastle. The waves are coming now, destroying parts of the beautiful home we have built. The more the waves come flooding in, the more furiously we work at keeping our house safe. How proud we all were that our castle survived while others hadn’t. Back then we felt like we could survive anything, that we would always be protected. We held hands, singing and dancing around our sand home. I thought about how pretty the sky looked that day.

* * *

The next day, I stroll through the London streets to meet James and Terry. Samuel has taken his sisters to a museum, proud that he knows his way around London so well – we always make sure to meet up when I’m here. I meet up with them on Hampstead Heath. There are some kites flying high in the air, their colours dancing and colliding against the blue sky. We lie on our backs in the cold grass, talking about this and that. I’m grateful that we don’t discuss anything too deep, I need a rest from heavy – it’s fun to just be with them.

We watch three little girls playing. One of them stands with her arms open, while the other girl has her back to her. I can hear her yell, ‘Now, do it now!’ The girl falls back into her friend’s waiting arms without fear or hesitation. They do this over and over. When it’s the smallest girl’s turn, she refuses.

‘I can’t, I just can’t,’ she says, on the verge of tears. ‘What if no one’s there to catch me? What if I fall?’

One of her friends puts her arm around her.

‘I always hated those games, I could never let myself fall like that. I wish I could just pick that little girl up, she looks so sad,’ I say.

James smiles at me gently.

‘She’ll figure it out.’

‘I know,’ I reply, ‘it just takes time.’

‘Look, Zara…’ Terry is still looking in the children’s direction.

I turn back to the group of kids. The little one is watching while the two older ones turn, run, jump and start falling forwards into each other’s arms, laughing in delight.

I hear them say, ‘Come on, Molly! You can do this.’ I watch her pause, take a deep breath, then running forwards, she dives into their outstretched arms.

‘You see? I told you she’d figure it out – we all do in the end.’

‘It takes a lot longer for some, though,’ I say ruefully.

‘Especially you, Zara. You’ve taken years to sort through all your crap. Half a century now, isn’t it?’ Terry nudges me as we start to walk down the hill.

‘Yes, Mr Wiseguy. Some of us are sicker than others. I’ve had you guys to walk the path with so no wonder it’s taken me so bloody long! I’m just an extra-large onion. I have a lot of layers, and I’m okay with that.’

A couple of years back, James had finally met his biological daughter. He had called me constantly during his search: ‘Zara, was your father’s name Judge S. Solomon?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, curious as to what he was going to say next.

‘You’re never going to believe it. Your father was the judge who oversaw my daughter’s adoption.’

I couldn’t speak; I felt a wave of nausea wash over me.

‘Zara, you need to tell him he did the right thing. Her mother was an addict and I was an alcoholic – I couldn’t take care of her at that time in my life. Zara,’ he said quietly, ‘your father saved my daughter’s life.’

I’m so choked up, I can barely speak except to say: ‘And you, dear James, saved mine.’

* * *

Tomorrow it’s time to head back to New Jersey. We have had the most wonderful Christmas. I receive a lovely text from Allessandro and I find myself weeping in the car. I wonder what it would have been like to be raised with a little brother. I imagine him as a little boy and me as the protective older sister. I wonder what it would have felt like to grow up with brothers and sisters who were on my side, who cared about me, who didn’t bully me. But that was not my childhood. I need to focus on what I have now. I’m an auntie to Pat’s grandchildren. I love watching them grow up; I love being ‘Auntie Wawa’. I get a chance now to be with family members who will always have known me. I cherish every moment with them.

Saying goodbye to my family is never easy, but for the first time I have a different feeling: I now have family in both Britain and America. I’m beginning to understand the path that the universe has laid out for me. I was always meant to come to America, I just never understood why until now.

In some ways, nothing has changed. I’m still split down the middle, part of two families. Having two sets of parents is complicated, but I can live with it.

Maybe living between two countries has been comfortable for me because the split life is something I already know. Divorce is a split life, too. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to live any other way – I find a strange sense of safety in it.

I continue to go to meetings and put my sobriety first. I have learnt that I will always have moments where my disease wants to lead me back down the path of self-destruction. But I owe everything I have today to my sobriety and I’m so grateful to the friends who supported me through it.

I go to an adoption group meeting in New Jersey each month to share experiences and really, to just hang out and have fun. I am now so grateful for this community who are always there for me. I feel so much more connected to this place now that I know my birth father lives here.

At first it’s hard for Pat and my sister to adjust to me having found Antonio. They worry they will lose me. My adoptive mother had the same fear. Adoptees are always having to reassure our families our hearts are big enough for all of them.

My sister Michelle and I have had yet another revelation. We were looking back through old emails when she found one she had sent to me three years ago. We had somehow both forgotten about it. My friend Nicole, who knew her birth mother, had pushed her to contact me. We read the email:

We are both stunned. The only reason she remembered that she had sent it to me was that it came up on a thread in her emails. Four years ago, I had had his name right there in front of me. Four years ago, I first performed my one-woman show, Beneath My Father’s Sky. The timing blows my mind. But three years ago, I was in a difficult place: I was about to get divorced. I understand now why I had to wait so long – it was indeed all part of a greater plan.

I often think about my adoptive mother. I still miss her so much it can physically hurt. I wonder what she would think about how my life has turned out. I feel that my relationship with my mother didn’t die when she did, that it continues to grow. Her passing has allowed her to understand what I always needed: she helped me to complete my circle.

I had a clear memory the other day of how much I hated the dark when I was small. Maybe the darkness reminded me of what I didn’t have. In the blackness I would strain the inside of my eyes to see their faces, but they were always moving – noses, eyes and mouths shifting, melting away before I could see them. My mother would hear me calling in the dark, a slight panic in my voice, to turn the hall light on and she would open my door halfway so I could sleep in the safety of the light.

* * *

Today is 29 January 2017. I’m driving home from Antonio’s – I was invited for lunch with him and Lisa. It was the first time I had been back to the house since we surprised her a few months ago. Again, she welcomed me with open arms. Her generous heart stuns me. I spend the afternoon looking at photos of Antonio’s family. Over the last year he has called me regularly and I still feel excited when I see his name come up on my phone. He is a kind, loving Italian man. His wife texts me to check in and share news. We have visited each other a few times. Slowly, we are figuring out how to make each other part of our lives. My new sister and brother and I are in touch. I still have yet to meet a few more siblings but I’m okay with it taking more time – my presence has been a surprise for everyone.

When I go to London I spend time with Pat and my siblings. I now have three nieces, who I love spending time with. I’m so happy that I am getting to see them grow up from birth.

My adopted father is now eighty-seven years old. We are both amazed that he outlived my mother by so many years and we joke that she would be as surprised as us. We continue to talk about Mum and we miss her. I gently tell Dad the work that I do within adoption, but I still protect him from my truth and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe I’m still worried that he will reject me the way I was worried my mother would when she knew that I had found Pat.

I think of my mother’s big suitcase full of family photos and how she would sit on the floor and show them to me. I believe that was her way of making me feel connected to the family. I loved to see them, but I never told her that I didn’t really think of those people as my family, they were her family to me. I realise though that since I have found my birth family I can now feel more connected to my adopted family. The not knowing of my story left me feeling disconnected to everyone.

My birth family’s acceptance and love for me has made my birth story so much easier to cope with. I think I’m finally shedding this core belief that I was not wanted and not meant to exist because I always thought of myself as a mistake. And when I look at my children they are my reminder how perfect they are, that no child born is ever a mistake.

As I drive, I run through a mental checklist. All three kids are thriving – they stretch out their wings more and more every day. My son and I have had an honest conversation about how we feel, and we’re in touch a lot more. The love I have for these children continues to expand my heart. My ex-husband and I are getting along much better, although the grief still resurfaces sometimes. I can’t deny that I still wish things had been different, but I’m grateful for what we have now. New and beautiful relationships are blossoming every day.

Many people have asked me over the last few months whether I feel whole now, complete. I find it hard to answer. All I know is I want to bathe in the energy of this new family. I feel more complete than I ever have before. Fully complete? I’m not sure as feelings of loss still rise to the surface. As I drive home, I sob the same way I did every time when I left my birth mother during those early meetings. I know it’s just all part of the grief and joy of reunion, I know from experience these things take time; I also know that the feelings won’t kill me.

For the first time in my life, I’m no longer searching: I have found. I know my story. I have seen their faces. I have heard their voices. I have been welcomed and embraced, and my heart feels still.