Are You Sitting Down?

This one’s a doozy. It's why I’ve been MIA.

Me circa 1973 in Iran

Hey!

When you title an essay, “One Last Secret,” I guess you’re asking for it, right? My last Substack was about how all my life I’d subconsciously been trying get closer with my family of birth. I went through a laundry list of reasons for why we may not be close. I won’t bore you with a full rehash, but you get the drift – lifetime of blaming myself, then blaming the culture then lightbulb moment: I built my own close family and dreams really do come true! Wheeee!

End of story, right?

Wrong.

Grab some popcorn, sis.

My partner at the time, Anthony, wanted to do 23andMe. (Sidebar: No, we’re not together anymore, but we’re total besties. Yes, I’m super happy. And yes, more on all that in another letter.) 23andMe sounded fun. And it was! I matched with my favorite cousin on my mom’s side. I learned I’m 99.5% Iranian… and .5% Chinese! And I also matched with a cousin who had the same last name as a family that was close with mine. Hmmm…. A cousin. I know all my cousins, don’t you? But I didn’t know this cousin. At least, not as a cousin. A quick google search revealed that this is the family I remember from my childhood. But cousins? Hm.

When I wrote that last Substack, I had already matched with him. As Hilaria Baldwin would say, “What is the English word?” Ah yes. Denial. I literally stared at his name for a year.

One. Year.

Every so often, I’d open the site. Yep. Still there. Still my number one match.

I asked my sister to do a 23andMe, telling her that I had gotten this strange connection on the site. Sure, she said. I sent her a kit and then got a notification a few weeks later from Amazon that she had returned it. I guess she changed her mind. I found out from Amazon and not her. This is the lack of closeness I’m talking about.

So I just sat on my hands for months. I didn’t want to reach out to someone I don’t know and perhaps disturb them. I didn’t want to upset my 93-year-old mother or risk being rejected again by my other siblings. In my family there’s an (invisible) barbed wire fence around all uncomfortable topics. Positive news, yes! Bring. It. On. Sexual abuse, Cancer, Divorce? No, ma’am! Keep it to yourself. Mustn’t disturb anyone.

Then one day I had an idea. Thanks to Instagram, I had a direct line to a very chill 20-something-year-old cousin on my dad’s side. “Hey! I’d love to gift you 23andMe, if you’re at all interested. I have selfish reasons I won’t bother you with for wanting you to take it, but if you’re up for it, I’d love to send you a kit.” He was totally up for it.

And…

We didn’t match.

There’s obviously so much more to this story but suffice it to say, the man I thought was my father…the man I always felt guilty for not feeling connected to despite how kind he was to me…was not my father.

My siblings are half siblings.

And everyone either knew for sure or at least suspected this.

Everyone, that is, except me.

My close friends who know all this have asked me if I’m angry. Honestly? I’m relieved. Everything finally makes sense now and I’m just finally resting in the truth.

Instead of making up excuses for why I don’t look like my siblings, I know why. Instead of feeling guilty that I didn’t even like the way my dad smelled, I know that no kid wants to sit on the lap of someone else’s dad and smell their smells. Instead of thinking how bizarre it was that my mother never told me (at age 16) when my dad died, I understand now that she didn’t think of him as my father. Instead of wondering why I was always treated like a guest in my home, I know now that I was. I was a guest in their family home. And, of course, stepparents and half siblings can have great and close relationships – when they are introduced as stepparents and half siblings. There IS a difference.

Many years ago, in 2004, an interviewer asked about my family immigrating to America. I gave the canned answer that I’d been told my whole life. We came to America just before the revolution so we could be educated here, blah blah blah. I mean, it’s the story of many Iranians in the diaspora. But after that interview came out, a Lebanese friend told me, “You know, your coming-to-America story doesn’t add up. Based on the dates, that is not why you all moved to the US.” In that very moment, I flashed to a scene from a trip back to Tehran (1977 - 1st grade) of a tall, handsome distinguished man in a very decorated officer’s uniform twirling my mother and her laughing in a way I’d never seen her laugh before or since. He also picked me up and held me high in the air. This visit took place a few years after we had all made the big move to America. In that conversation with my friend, I thought my mom might have had an affair. Never in a million years did I think, “and that man must be my father.” Not even years later after seeing his last name on my 23andMe did I believe he was my father or that we had moved to America because my mother’s husband needed an ocean of space between that man and the rest of his family.

Instead, I went through my life thinking what’s wrong with me that things in my family are so disconnected. I guess in some ways, I was right – it was me. But of course, there’s so much more. This is more than a single serving of tea. There have been so many layers to unpack – a mille-feuille – that this past year has been like a never-ending unboxing video.

After finding out that I was not a match with my paternal cousin, I reached out through 23andMe to the cousin I was a match with. I kept it very light, just telling him I remembered his family fondly, so nice to connect, would love to catch up on the phone if he’s up for it. He was even warmer than expected in his response, knew my family very well, seemed not surprised at all to hear from me.

I gave my mom one more chance before he and I spoke to clarify how we may be related to this family. She confirmed we are not related, just close friends. I wish I were wearing a heart rate monitor during that Christmas Day 2024 conversation.

When my 23andMe cousin and I got on the phone, we exchanged polite and warm pleasantries, but then I got right into it. “We didn’t match on Facebook. We matched on 23andMe. What do you understand our family relationship to be?” Deep breath on his side. “I need you to say it,” he said. “I suspect I have a different father than my siblings.” I heard huge sigh of relief. “You don’t know what a burden has been lifted off my shoulders,” he practically sobbed. He had known for almost my whole life. He knew everything about me and had been watching my life from afar knowing that I’m the only child of his long deceased, much beloved and very famous uncle.

The belonging my cousin has offered me, is what I’ve been searching for my entire life. I am not naming him here because well, naming him would name my father and I’m not there yet. Not publicly. That’s a bigger story and one I will tell in time.

I will only say it’s deep how the brain will not see what’s obvious until it’s ready. I look exactly like my birth father. His picture was all over my baby album. He is well known enough that I knew exactly what he looked like. We look alike in the same way the Kennedy’s all look alike. And yet – I needed scientific proof to see it. I believed everything I was told up until the moment I could no longer refuse it.

Having said all this, my dad (what I call the man who raised me - versus father - which is what I call my birth father) impacted my life in many important ways - especially after his death. And I’ve never had more respect for him than I do today knowing what I now know and what he, also, knew back then. He was always so kind to me and there’s not a moment that I don’t have gratitude for him. In fact, and this is silly, but I was able to track down, the Big Bird alarm clock, my most cherished gift he bought me as a child, on Ebay, and it sits right in front of my writing chair so I can remember his kindness and generosity every single day. And behind me hangs a picture of my father. The man, without whom, I would not exist. The man whose face and energy I inherited. The bull-in-a-china shop energy I was always ashamed of because it was so mismatched with the more discreet and formal members of my family. Now I break china with pride. 🐂 This past 18 years of digging, asking, hiding, seeking, bleeding, healing has been an epic love story - a journey, and finally, reintroduction to myself and my real story. My white knuckles are just beginning to relax and the ground beneath my feet feels solid for the first time in my life. No more searching for daddy in all the wrong places. I found him. I found him. I’ve had many moments of growth and epiphany but this one feels particularly profound.

My dad is always with me.

Yes, I told my mom. Yes, she confirmed it. No, she wasn’t planning on ever telling me. 🤷🏻‍♀️ More on that in the future. Like I said, this story is a mille-feuille so let’s stop here for today. I sat on this for a long time without writing about it because honestly, I was afraid of how my family would feel. This is how I felt at the magazines when I was afraid to admit I had been sexually abused and felt like a coward fraud after reading so many brave letters from girls who were in-real-time survivors of the same. It’s not that I don’t want to protect my family. It’s more that I want to protect myself. Finally. I am a speaker of the truth. And perhaps that’s because I was raised with so many lies. Let me know if you’ve had an experience like this and have wisdom to share. I’d love it. I know in the age of 23andMe, I’m not alone.

And until next time, I continue to be grateful to be your pen pal. Even when it’s quiet on my side, I’m here, 24/7, as always, at atoosa@atoosa.com.

xo atoosa

PS - I’m not on Instagram anymore (Being off has afforded me the quiet and space I need to process everything and make the changes I’ve needed to make in my life as mindfully as possible), but if you liked this post, feel free to share the link on your social media. Thank you!

Soundtrack of my ❤️: