Finding my birth family was supposed to complete me, but it destroyed me instead.
The Curse of the Match
A few weeks later, I got an email saying my results were ready. I logged in expecting to see percentages and a map.
Instead, there was a red banner across the top that said, “Please call us immediately regarding your results.” My stomach dropped. I called the number and a woman with a shaky voice told me my DNA had been flagged in a criminal database.
My biological father was convicted of murdering 11 women in the 1990s. He was currently on death row. They called him the Westside Strangler. I sat on my kitchen floor for an hour just staring at the wall.
The DNA company explained they were legally required to notify law enforcement when there was a match to a criminal case. Within 2 hours, a detective called asking if I’d be willing to answer questions.
Then a reporter called, then another. By the next morning, my face was all over the news.
“Daughter of Westside Strangler discovered through DNA test” was the headline on every website. Journalists camped outside my apartment building. My phone rang constantly with numbers I didn’t recognize.
My boss called me that afternoon.
“I’m so sorry, but several clients have expressed concerns. We think it’s best if you take a leave of absence until this blows over.”
My fiance’s parents showed up at our apartment that night. His mom was crying.
“We love you, but you have to understand this changes things,” she said to him. Not to me.
“What if it’s genetic? What if your children?” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Strangers found my social media accounts and sent me messages. A few people even told me I had murder in my blood. That I was evil by nature, that I should never be allowed to have kids.
True Crime podcasters did entire episodes analyzing my face and comparing it to my father’s mugsh shot. Someone started a conspiracy theory that I’d been secretly visiting him in prison and helping him.
My friends stopped responding to my texts. My fianceé started acting weird around me. One night he was watching me cook dinner and asked,
“Do you ever think about hurting people?”
I dropped the knife I was holding.
“What? No.” “I’ve never even met this man.”
Three weeks later, he told me he couldn’t marry me. He moved out the next day.
I lost my job officially a week after that. Then I got a letter from the state prison. My biological father wanted to meet me before his execution. I threw the letter away immediately and tried to pretend it didn’t exist.
Then I got a Facebook message from a woman I didn’t know.
“I’m your birth mother. Please, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”
We agreed to meet at a coffee shop on the edge of town where no one would recognize me. She was waiting at a back table looking terrified.
Her hands were shaking when she reached out to touch mine.
“I was 17 when I got pregnant,” she said quietly. “He was my boyfriend. I had no idea what he was doing.”
“When the police arrested him, I was 5 months along,” she continued. “I gave you up for adoption because I thought if no one ever knew who your father was, you’d be safe. You’d have a normal life.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry the DNA test ruined that.”
I wanted to be angry at her, but I just felt empty. His execution is scheduled for 6 months from now.
She continued, “The media coverage is going to get so much worse. They’re going to follow you everywhere. Show your face constantly. Dig into every part of your life.”
I already knew that. I was living it.
Then she leaned closer and lowered her voice even more.
“But there’s something else you need to know. Something the police never made public.”
She pulled an old photograph from her purse and slid it across the table. It showed four men standing together outside a bar. My father was on the left.
“He didn’t work alone,” she whispered. “He had accompllices. Three of them.”
The police only ever caught him. The others were never identified. I stared at the photo. The other three men’s faces were blurry but visible.
“Why are you telling me this?”
She looked around the coffee shop like she was afraid someone was listening.
“Because your face has been all over the news for 2 weeks. Everyone knows who you are now. Everyone knows you’re his daughter.”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I understood. The three men in this photo were still out there somewhere. And now they knew exactly who I was. They were coming to kill me.
I drove home from the coffee shop with the photo in my purse and my hands shaking on the steering wheel. Every car behind me felt like a threat. Every person on the sidewalk could be one of the three men.
Back in my apartment, I locked the door and pulled all the curtains closed. The afternoon light barely made it through the fabric. I sat on my couch and spread the photo on the coffee table in front of me.
Four men standing outside a bar in the 1990s. My father on the left with his arm around another guy’s shoulders. The other two standing close together on the right.
Their faces were blurry, but you could see basic features. Hair color, build, approximate age. Any one of them could have seen my face on the news. Any one of them knew I existed now. Any one of them might be planning how to kill me right now to protect their secret.
I barely slept that night. Every sound in the hallway made me jump. The neighbors door closing, footsteps on the stairs, a car alarm going off in the parking lot.
I kept thinking about what my birthother said. They knew who I was. They knew where to find me.
I couldn’t just sit here waiting to become a victim like the 11 women my father killed. Around 3:00 a.m., I realized I had to do something. Hiding wasn’t going to keep me safe. These men had stayed hidden for 25 years. They were smart. They were careful. If they wanted me dead, they’d find a way unless I found them first.
