The DNA Test That Uncovered Two Brothers and the Biological Father I never met.

Today, I’m taking a brief pause from my usual posts about my journey into global mobility to share something deeply personal—something that has unexpectedly shaped my life in ways I never anticipated.

For most of my life, I was an only child raised by a single mom. My parents divorced before I was even born, and my dad was mostly in and out of my life. To me, he often felt more like an older brother than a father. We didn't spend a lot of time together, and his absence never left a huge emotional gap. In fact, I didn’t even know he had passed away until years after the fact.

I never really saw much resemblance between myself and my father, and my wife, with her keen eye for details, would often point it out. But I shrugged it off. It was just the life I knew.

Fast forward to 2017, when my wife gave me an Ancestry kit. The idea that saliva could unveil hidden family connections seemed strange to me. So, I put the kit aside for months. Part of me wasn’t ready for what it might reveal, and the other part just wasn’t convinced. But eventually, curiosity got the better of me, and I mailed it off.

In July of 2017, the results came back with a list of names—genetically close matches, but no real details. The platform allowed me to reach out anonymously, so I did. The first response came from Gary, who was managing his late mother’s account. We exchanged emails and phone calls, but nothing truly clicked. Then came Marc. We exchanged emails, but no match. Marc even put me in touch with his mother, Rochelle, but again, there was no connection. By this point, I was starting to think this whole thing was overhyped.

Then came April 2018. A distant relative reached out via the website and knew an incredible amount about my mom’s side of the family. Perhaps this thing is real. I went back to Gary, who turned out to be quite the expert in genealogy. He explained something to me that changed everything: "centimorgans." (And yes, that’s a real word!) It’s a unit of genetic measurement that indicates how closely related you are to someone. My centimorgan count with Gary’s mother was 400—typical of second cousins. But with Marc, my count was 2,400—something much closer. Gary explained that this could only mean that Marc was my brother, uncle, or grandfather.

When I shared this new discovery with Rochelle, Marc’s mother, she asked for a photo. Upon seeing it, she immediately copied Marc and Scott into an email, saying, “Looks like you have a half-brother.” Evidentially, I looked more like their father than they did.

That’s when everything clicked. Gary pieced it all together—Sam Stone, his uncle, was my biological father. His mother and my grandmother (Sam's mother) were sisters. And just like that, at 49 years old, I found out I had two half-brothers, Scott and Marc, and that the man I thought was my father wasn’t my father at all.

The news was life-changing. I shared the revelation with my mother, who was a bit confused at first. But later, she admitted she had briefly known Sam but didn’t realize he was married at the time. I joked, “It seems you knew him more than just briefly!”

My mom was just about to turn 22 when she had me. Sam was 35. Sam passed away in 2009, which turned out to be about a decade too late for me to meet him. Still, I found myself learning about Sam through my newfound family. He was a complex man—sometimes manipulative, but also someone who sought to spend time with his children, even if for the wrong reasons. It was a stark contrast to the man I thought was my father, who never seemed interested in me.

I first met Scott during a work trip to Dallas. It was both exciting and awkward. I went in for a hug; he offered a handshake. We shared a brief conversation, and I learned that Scott had a strained relationship with Sam. Later, Scott, his wife, and daughter, along with Marc and his wife, came to visit in California. My family later traveled to South Carolina to Marc's home where we met Marc's four children, significant others, and Marc's granddaughter. But then, the pandemic hit, and the relationships we were just starting to build stalled. I haven’t seen them since.

Looking back, I realize how much of my life was shaped by a deep sense of not quite fitting in. My mom made the big mistake of sending me to an Orthodox Hebrew school even though we weren’t Orthodox and not even practicing Jews. And growing up in a predominantly Black neighborhood as a white Jew only added to my sense of isolation. At school, I felt out of place, and in my neighborhood, we faced hostility. Neither home nor school was a safe space.

I’ve thought about regret, but I try not to let it consume me. That being said, I do wish I’d known about my father and brothers earlier. I was an uncle at 17 and didn’t even know it. Now, at 55, this revelation is bittersweet. It’s nice to know, but it comes too late to change the past.

Despite everything, I’m grateful for the answers, even if they came late. It has taught me that life is unpredictable, and sometimes the truths we uncover can be both healing and painful.

Would I have taken the test knowing what I know now? Honestly, I’m not sure. Knowing what I missed out on is rough.

In the end, I’m thankful for the journey—one that helped me understand myself, my family, and my place in the world more deeply than I ever expected.