Eric took a deep breath, filling every corner of his lungs, and exhaled slowly, his breath measured and controlled. A moment of silence stretched between us.
“Yes,” he finally answered, his voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. His response left me wanting more. Men, I knew, often weren’t the most talkative, but just a simple “yes”?
I kept silent, my gaze fixed on him, my eyes questioning. I didn’t want to disrupt the silence; perhaps it was the pause he needed. Instead of words, I noticed him trying to suppress the tears that threatened to escape.
“Was that an accurate description of how you feel?” I asked gently.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice slightly choked. “That’s exactly it.”
I decided to take a step further. “Listen,” I began, “wanting to know your origin, where you come from, it’s a fundamental right that’s been yours since the day you were born. Every newborn on this planet has that right. I understand your internal struggle, your sense of betrayal versus your basic human desire to uncover your roots. Can I offer you another perspective on this search?”
“Sure,” he responded immediately. “Anything that can help me navigate this inner turmoil.”
“Consider this,” I continued. “You have parents whom you love and respect deeply.
No one questions your love for them or theirs for you.
There’s ‘them,’ who are your family, and then there’s ‘you.’ Your parents are a part of what makes you, YOU. What you’re searching for is the missing piece of your puzzle. You’re not looking to replace them. How does that sound?”
Eric straightened in his chair, as if a fresh breeze had swept through on a hot summer day. “Can I have another glass of water?” he asked.
“Of course,” I replied, placing the glass on the table and fetching a pitcher. When I returned, he had already lit another cigarette.
“Would you like some coffee with that cigarette?” I inquired.
“Thank you,” he replied, “maybe later.”
“Maybe later.” Those two words filled me with relief, knowing that he felt comfortable enough to stay a while longer. So, I continued.
“If you decide to take the test, you have options,” I explained. “You can use a fake name, receive the results, and then decide what to do next. Or, if you prefer, I can look at the results first, inform you about them, and then you can decide how to proceed.
The important thing to remember is that you’re in control—what to do, how to do it, or whether to do anything at all. How does that sound?”
In an instant, Eric shifted into operation mode. “But how do I get a testing kit? Where do I get one? I don’t understand any of this,” he admitted.
I had already realized that he might need an emergency kit, one I kept for special cases just like this. And the coffee he mentioned could be the sip he takes after the test.
“I believe we can arrange that,” I assured him. “In fact, I have a kit right here with me, ready for you.”
“Really?” he exclaimed with surprise. “Did you know I was coming?”
“No,” I replied with a smile, “I usually keep a kit for special cases, and I believe you fit the category.”
I retrieved the kit from the closet and placed it on the table beside him. It was real now, right in front of us.
“So, what do you say?” I asked again.
“Let’s do it,” he replied with excitement in his voice. “If so, finish your cigarette, and we have an hour to spend together.”
There was no eating, drinking, or smoking allowed before taking the test, and the company’s instructions suggested a half-hour wait, but I preferred an hour, just to be safe. Eric extinguished his cigarette and took one last sip of water.
“What time is it?” he asked, checking his cell phone.
“3 pm,” he answered his own question.
While we waited, I took the opportunity to tell him about myself, my journey to search for my own roots, and my fascination with the world of DNA. I shared stories about my partner’s search for his biological parents, showed him what DNA test results looked like, and explained how we used them in our searches.
The atmosphere was pleasant, and the conversation flowed naturally.
The hour passed quickly, and eventually, it was time. I opened the kit, explaining its contents, showing him the funnel used to collect saliva, and handed him the test tube.
“Do you see the black line here on the test tube?” I asked.
“What? Do I have to fill this whole thing with saliva?” he exclaimed, laughing. “I don’t have that much saliva!”
I chuckled in response. “No, there’s a substance at the bottom, and then you add the saliva. It’s not as much as it seems.”
Eric took the test tube, turned away from me, and began spitting into it. It was a somewhat embarrassing process to do in front of someone else in the same room. I excused myself, claiming I needed to use the bathroom. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but it was also a good excuse to give him some privacy. When I returned, the tube was filled to the required black line.
He handed it to me, and I removed the funnel, screwing on the cap filled with a light blue preservative liquid. Eric watched with fascination as the blue liquid slowly dripped into the test tube, like a child discovering magic for the first time.
“Aren’t you disgusted to touch it?” he asked, his amazement evident.
“Absolutely not,” I replied. “To me, it’s not just a saliva test tube; it’s a mystery.”
Once all the liquid was in the tube, I ensured it was tightly sealed, shook it for a few seconds, placed it in the designated plastic bag, and then into the box, sealing it with double-sided tape. The technical part was complete.
“Now what?” Eric asked.
“Now, a trip to the post office, and then we wait for the results,” I replied.
He took another deep breath, lighting another cigarette.
“Do I remember an offer for coffee somewhere in this process?” he said with a smile.
“One coffee coming right up,” I replied, heading to the kitchen.
Before he left, he signed all the necessary forms so I could handle the logistics, including kit activation, the post office visit, and contacting him once the results arrived.
A month and a half passed with minimal communication from him. As promised, I provided updates on the progress of the kit’s processing stages.
Now, a month and a half after our initial meeting, the long-awaited email arrived.
The results were in.
