belated birthday, my sweet girl,” she
wrote. She said she was unmarried
and that she felt a connection to me.
Reading those words brought tears to
my eyes. I felt like I’d found a piece of
me that was missing. But when I wrote
back, I never heard from her again.
The next year, my parents gave me a
DNA kit, hoping I might be able to find
other relatives. Then, one day last sum-
mer, I logged in to Ancestry and saw
a notification that said “parent-child
match.” My heart stopped.
His name is Bob Baxter, and I quickly
found him on Facebook. He is Ojibwa,
he is a retired police officer in northern
Ontario and we have the same smile.
Immediately, I knew he was the one,
but I waited a week before reaching out.
I didn’t want to encounter the same
rejection I’d felt with my birth mom.
“This is a bit shocking,” Bob said
when I contacted him. He told me that
my birth mom informed him she was
pregnant through mutual friends, and
then she disappeared. We exchanged
some emails, and Bob shared more
about himself. As a child, he lived on
Makokibatan Lake with his family until
he was placed in a residential school.
He told me he was married three
times—I have 12 half-siblings!—and
that he has been with his current wife,
Lynn, for 19 years. After retiring from
the police force, Bob spoke at schools
and organizations around Ontario
about how his residential-school
experience affected his life.Last June, Bob told me he was visit-
ing Toronto, and we set up a meeting.
When I saw him, a rush of emotions
came over me and I started crying. I
kept looking at his face—I studied
every feature. The next day we met
again at Roundhouse Park. My six-
month-old daughter, Daisy, had an
instant connection with Bob.
Now Bob and I talk often. He’s also
teaching me more about my heritage
and helping me apply for my Indian
status. It’s overwhelming but exciting.
I never thought I’d have a relationship
with my birth dad, and he’s turned out
to be an incredible man.Jake Scott, 26
Found his biological siblingsW
hen I was 15, I learned I was
the product of anonymous
sperm donation. My par-
ents had been divorced for a long time,
and one day I came home from my
father’s house wearing his coat. When
a condom fell out of the pocket, I told
my mom it belonged to my dad. She
scoffed. “Don’t know why he needs
condoms,” she said. “He’s been shoot-
ing blanks for 20 years.”
My mom saw the gears turn in my
head and she turned sheet-white. She’d
blown 15 years of secrecy on a punch-
line. I was never supposed to find out.
I felt strangely indifferent. No anger
or tears, just questions: where am I
from? What does my biological fatherreader’s digest
64 october 2019