I recently finished the Hulu miniseries Little Fires Everywhere, based on the novel by Celeste Ng. (I have not read the book, although I understand that the screen adaptation departs from it in important ways.) I was unaware of the plot when I clicked to watch the miniseries, and wow — it resonated with me deeply. I didn’t love the ending, which I won’t give away for those who haven’t seen it, but the show addressed heavy, complicated themes profoundly. It made a big impression on me.
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You can read the earlier posts in this series here:
In my last post in this series, I wrote about meeting my immediate biological family, my siblings and mother. But family roots, of course, go far deeper than one or two generations. I wanted to have a more complete picture of the ancestors whose genes I’d inherited.
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You can read the earlier posts in this series here:
I was 27 when I first looked at a person who shared my DNA. On a gray day in late November, I opened the door of a diner and saw my then-12-year old niece, who gave a small smile and pointed to her mother standing at the counter. My sister.
It’s been nearly five months since I alluded to this post, and I’ve procrastinated on writing it. It’s a difficult one for me to write. This meeting happened almost eight years ago now, and I wish I had journaled about it at the time. My memories of my feelings have no doubt been affected by experiences in the intervening years and the soul-searching I’ve done since then. I’m also uncomfortable writing about other people, but I’ll do my best to recount things as honestly as I can.
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