Nine years ago, I took my first commercial DNA test, just for fun. I never had any serious doubt that my mom and dad, who split up when I was little, were my biological parents. Instead, I was chiefly motivated by curiosity about my ethnicity (Irish and English, no big surprise).
At the time, I had no idea that I would spend the next nine years finding lost relatives using DNA. And I certainly did not foresee that in 2024, as a “DNA Sleuth,” I would be featured in a runaway hit podcast about solving a family mystery.
In 2015, I only knew that my own DNA results fascinated me. Gaps in my knowledge were filled in, revealing third and fourth cousins — strangers who shared a tiny fragment of my genes. I was peering through a keyhole into a much larger room.
My curiosity soon evolved into a calling. I came to believe that for people who were adopted, or whose paternity was otherwise unknown, DNA testing was more than merely fun — it was their birthright.
From the outset, I enjoyed the challenge of solving family mysteries. I started small: a friend of a friend, an adoptee. I found both of her parents. Flush with success, I posted about it. A friend reached out, and then another. An early case was featured in Marin Magazine. A TV story followed.
As the phone kept ringing, I grew to love this work. Not every case has a Hollywood ending, but no matter what, lives are transformed. Twin sisters discover twin brothers they never knew existed. Grown men come face to face with a son they unknowingly fathered in their teens. It’s magical — sometimes beautiful, sometimes fraught — but it’s always magical.
Bittersweet Revelation, Peaceful Closure
I tell my clients that every case is solvable, but that’s no guarantee of a perfectly tidy ending. Yaker’s story is one example. She spent her childhood in England waiting for parents who gave her up and never returned.
Born in 1954, she and her two brothers were left at Cheney House, a home in Weybridge, Surrey, for lost or abandoned children. Unlike many other interracial children, Yaker and her siblings were kept together. Yaker eventually settled in the United States. Years passed, but her search for her parents never ended. She had their names, but it led nowhere. More than 60 years after she was orphaned, she hired me. I accepted Yaker’s case knowing full well that international cases can be especially challenging. Privacy rules are inconsistent, paper records are half a world away, and office hours start at 1 a.m. PT.
I started with the basics — phone directories, social media — and found nothing. After months of diligent work, every new trail turned cold. One day, poring over reams of U.K. birth records, a solitary fact leapt off the page: Yaker’s parents had had another child, Pamela, in 1957.
My mind lit up with questions: Why would they give up their first three children only to go on and have another? Where was Pamela now?
I combed through records until I found Pamela’s name on a marriage certificate. She had three daughters. I scoured social media again, where I found a trove of photos of women who looked remarkably like Yaker. Through the daughters’ accounts, I located Pamela.
Yaker’s first outreach to her sister was met with skepticism. How could she have three siblings she never knew about? She needed proof. Yaker was patient and diplomatic, and before long, the puzzle pieces started to fall into place.
For Yaker, the conclusion was bittersweet — she finally knew the truth about her origins, and her extended family, but she would never meet her parents. Pamela had been raised by them, but they died before we found her. Ultimately, for both sisters — as is overwhelmingly the case in my experience — knowing the truth brought closure.
The Scotsman at the Bat Mitzvah
Sometimes, even a tough case can yield a rich array of positive results. Jodi, now a university professor, was born at Marin General Hospital in 1974. Her parents’ names, listed on her birth certificate, were Rosalie and Sam.
When Jodi was two, her parents divorced, and her mother married Wayne. Jodi and her stepdad grew close, and when she was 12, her mother told her the “truth”: Wayne, not Sam, was really Jodi’s biological father.
For the rest of his life, Wayne was a wonderful “dad” to Jodi. Despite this, when she looked in the mirror, Jodi had doubts. Wayne was dark-haired with long features. Jodi is a gorgeous redhead with a faint spray of freckles; in a cable-knit sweater, she looks like a poster girl for a “Visit Scotland” ad campaign.
Years after Wayne’s death, with questions still lingering, she asked for my help. Her chief aim was to verify that Wayne was her father. It also might be Sam, she noted. However, DNA tests told an altogether different story: Neither “father” was actually related to her by blood.
For weeks, finding a paternal match seemed out of reach, but DNA is persistent. Finally, I narrowed it down to two brothers, Tim and Cameron. Buried in Marin County’s archives, I found evidence that one of them, Tim, held a real estate license here in 1975, the likely time and place of Jodi’s conception.
Tim, as it turned out, was still living nearby in San Lorenzo. At first, he denied everything, as did Rosalie. As he got to know Jodi, his heart melted. He confessed that he always knew he was Jodi’s father.
Tim had rented a room from Rosalie and Sam, and was ever present during Jodi’s first year of life. He had held her in his arms and changed her diapers. When Rosalie broke off their affair, he had reluctantly agreed to move away and keep the whole matter secret. For over 40 years, he kept his word, but his daughter was never far from his mind.
In one fell swoop, the hard science of DNA had shattered a series of Jodi’s deeply ingrained myths about her own life. In the aftermath, she has been a model of resilience and growth. She grew close to her “third” father, Tim. She also earned a doctorate by creating a therapeutic program for children and parents dealing with the fallout from DNA discoveries, the first of its kind.
Today, in her psychology work, Jodi helps others navigate the emotional complexities of DNA revelations. It’s been my pleasure to collaborate on a podcast series with her, exploring different aspects of our shared passion. She has also become one of my closest friends.
Jodi and Tim’s reunification was cathartic for them, and I saw how it enriched the lives of other family members. At her daughter’s bat mitzvah in 2021, Jodi’s Scottish-American father held a place of honor, as did her “new” half-brother, who had flown in from Texas. The circle was complete. Tim passed away just a few months later.
Cousin Anthony
Sometimes a DNA surprise brings nothing but joy. To my delight, it happened in my own family. Years after I had firmly established my family tree, a new name popped up in my DNA alerts. His name was Anthony. It was a close match. I had never heard of him.
He had been adopted at birth in 1971 and often wondered about his biological family. I pieced it together quickly: Anthony was the only son of my uncle (my mom’s brother). My uncle’s jaw dropped: He had no idea he had ever fathered a son.
Soon, Anthony came to visit us in Marin. We greeted the 46-year-old with a bouquet of “It’s a Boy” balloons. The family he had always wondered about was sitting right across from him in my living room.
The genuine connection was immediate and effortless. I told him stories about the grandparents he never had a chance to know. Eyes welled up with tears of joy. We’ve had a close relationship ever since.
Secrecy Must End; Transparency Must Win
In this new era of increasing genetic transparency, we are still grappling with its implications for privacy, identity and the very definition of family. But one truth stands out: the desire to understand where we come from, to know our biological truth, is fundamental.
Since the dawn of time, every society has coerced some women into giving up their children. Even today, in most cultures, a cloud of shame hangs over children born outside of marriage. Racial and religious biases often compound the shame.
Today, stigmas are slowly disappearing. The culture shift has certainly aided my efforts to reunite long-lost parents and children. However, my work is far from finished.
Everybody deserves to know the truth about their origins. Adoptees should be treated just like anybody else. I’m pleased that in 15 U.S. states, adoptees have a right to request and obtain their original birth certificates when they’re adults. Usually, these documents record the real names of each biological parent. California is not yet one of these states.
New York State led the way, and I am optimistic that Gov. Gavin Newsom will enact a similar law in California before his term is done. I won’t rest until all 50 states have similar laws.
Good Trouble, Roots of Devotion
Nine years ago, out of the blue, I discovered my calling. It is precise, delicate and sometimes controversial work. Many believe I’m stirring up trouble by bringing long-buried secrets into the light. But I know it’s good trouble: Although every child deserves to know their own history, all involved parties must be treated with dignity and empathy.
My own childhood story sheds some light on why I view this as a calling, not merely a job. When I was five years old, living with my father in California, the doorbell rang. I answered, and at the doorstep was a woman I didn’t recognize.
Before I knew what was happening, the woman — my mother — whisked me away to Oregon, far away from the dad I adored. I was lost and sad. In the years that followed, not a day passed when I didn’t dream of being reunited with my dad.
Today, I harbor no judgment about the confusing decisions my parents made decades ago. But deep down, I still know the heartache of separation. I also know the joy of reunification.
All along, my early experiences have quietly fueled my dedication to finding lost relatives. To me, it’s always been about more than just solving mysteries or building family trees. It’s about an essential human drive: to belong.
While science and technology may provide the tools, the human stories — of loss, discovery, reconnection and renewal — are at the heart of the matter. That’s where DNA’s true magic lies.
Christina Bryan, a genetic and family investigator, lives in Belvedere.
