It started, embarrassingly, with a 23andMe test my husband gave me for Christmas. I don't think he meant it the way it ended up being. He thought it would be fun — where are you from, what's your genetic makeup, some neat facts about your heritage. I spit in the tube. I sent it off. Three weeks later, I had a list of biological relatives. Not just distant cousins. A first cousin once removed. An aunt. A grandmother, still alive, living in a town called Prescott, Arizona, that I had never been to. I sat on my couch in Portland and looked at her face on the screen — a woman named Dolores who had my exact jawline and the same crease between her eyebrows that I got when I frowned — and I felt something crack open inside my chest that I did not have a word for. I didn't tell my parents for six months. And when I finally did, my mother was the one who answered the phone. And she said something I was not prepared for.