After taking a DNA test, I had lots of questions for my mother. But it wasn’t until we took our conversations outside, working together in my scrubby yard, that I began to get some answers
In 2019, I took a DNA test and discovered that my father, who had died three months earlier, was not biologically related to me. When it came to our family history, I thought I had everything figured out, but that turned out not to be the case. The father who raised me was a foreign correspondent and his love of questions shaped me. So, after my discovery I became the reporter’s daughter, approaching family and family friends with interrogative zeal. It quickly became clear that the one person who could complete the story of my origins was my mother, who had never been a reliable raconteur. Surely, she would be more candid and forthcoming now? What mother would not want to help her child restore their biography?
But every time I tried to interview her, she would talk over my questions or demur. She would answer like a cornered politician or a toddler with cake on its mind. She threw fistfuls of grass at any query. When I told people I could not get my story out of her, they asked: “Are you sure you’re asking the right questions?” But I knew from past experience that there were no right questions.
