My mind spirals out of control along with my tears. My biological parents are both here and they’re…together.
“So, you’re my…” I sputter, unable to finish the sentence as emotion claws at the back of my throat.
“I am, mija.”
I rise on wobbly legs and close the distance between us. He folds me into his arms, shoulders shaking as his own tears fall. A few beats later, the gentle graze of a feminine hand runs over my shoulders, a warm body hovering close to her husband and the daughter they gave up.
The weight of this moment—a child reunited with her parents after twenty-two years apart—fills the air around us and I tell myself to log every detail. The words, the faces, the room. I couldn’t possibly process it all in real time.
When the three of us step back, our faces streaked in tears and disbelieving smiles, I turn to Connor. He stands a few steps away, his phone held up in video mode to capture the interaction. I don’t know when he started recording, but I already know I’ll treasure that video for the rest of my life.
I give Connor a grateful smile. When he winks in answer, a tear falls down his cheek.
Turning back to Cheyenne and Miguel, I notice a large portrait on the wall just beyond where we’re standing—something I didn’t catch before.
My eyes locked on the family posed in a group hug, I recall all the evidence from our visit yesterday. “Are those your kids?”
They follow my gaze. Cheyenne takes my hand a moment later and leads the way until the three of us stand in front of the oversized print.
“Yes. These are your brothers and sisters,” she says.
My hands come to my face, cheeks soaked with tears. The only thought my brain can muster isthis is impossible.
“This is Miguel Junior. We call him MJ. He’s twelve.” Miguel points at the tween boy with thick, wavy black hair that already stands taller than his mom. Brown eyes like mine.
“This is Rosa. Sometimes we call her Rosie. She’s ten.” Long dark hair. Full, plump cheeks and a dusting of freckles on her nose. Brown eyes.
“This here is Tally, short for Tallulah, and she’s seven.” Green eyes, like her mom, but more freckles like her dad. Her gap-toothed smile lights up her whole face. The head of curly dark hair sets her apart from the rest of her siblings.
“And this is our four-year-old, Kai,” Cheyenne says of the last little figure propped on his dad’s shoulders, smiling down at his big brother. The only one not fully turned to the camera, it’s hard to make out his features, but the obvious notes are there: dark skin, dark hair.
These tiny faces—the faces of my two brothers and two sisters. My full-blood siblings. I never want to look away.
Cheyenne and Miguel each rest a considerate hand on my shoulders, but all I can do is swat at the tears dropping faster than I can catch them. Every time I think I’ve got my emotions under control, it starts back up again.
I pinch my eyes shut and force out the question that’s paralyzed me since I saw the sidewalk chalk on the driveway yesterday. “Do they know about me?”
“Yes, Gretchen, they do.” Miguel’s answer is immediate—calm and reassuring. I sag in relief as the breath I’d held hostage rushes out. My face squeezes in on itself again when new tears begin to fall. I’m seconds away from full body sobbing right here in this hallway.
“This is a lot. Let’s sit back down so we can talk,” Cheyenne prods as we return to the living room.
We all make use of the tissue box Cheyenne passes around as Miguel says, “We didn’t want to overwhelm you with the kids here, so we have a neighbor down the street watching them. If and when you’re ready, we’ll go get them.”
I nod in understanding, thankful that I wasn’t overwhelmed with all of this when I knocked on the door.
Cheyenne asks about what led me to her. With Connor’s hand running smooth strokes up and down my back, I launch into the story about the DNA kit and the detective that provided me with her name and address, but no other details.
When I circle back to the part about Miguel’s name not beingon my birth certificate, Cheyenne turns to him and places her hand atop his. The look that passes between them feels fraught with regret and bad memories.
“Miguel was not able to be there when I gave birth.”
“I wanted to be there,” he rushes to add.
“But there was a lot of tension between our families.”
They both pause and Cheyenne looks to Miguel, a sorrowful smile on her face. Miguel squeezes her hand, an encouragement to continue.
“My parents were high-ranking in the Navajo Nation government while I was growing up,” she starts and then hesitates before finally saying, “they were…strict. Tribal culture and preservation was ingrained into us from an early age. It was expected of us to keep our relationships within the tribe.”
