I heard it before I saw it, flying just alongside the ferry to Victoria, British Columbia: one lone, Canadian goose heading back to somewhere unknown—just like me. The goose reminds me of the first and last time I had been with my father. A gaggle had flown overhead, making us both look up and smile at each other. The significance then, and now, isn’t lost on me and gives me the courage I need for this journey to my biological sister’s new house. 

It is my first time returning after our father’s death, and only my second visit after finding this side of my family. I am a late discovery adoptee, and only found and connected with my bio father after finally becoming brave enough to take a DNA test on Father’s Day during the early summer of 2020.

It was the second time I had found him, actually. The first time, 22 years ago, we exchanged two very pleasant phone calls, but it ended there. Although he was very kind and sweet, he couldn’t process that I could be his first child, and I was far too skittish to push it any further. During the conversation, though, he gave me enough information to keep me hoping for a reunion with at least his daughter who lived somewhere in B.C.

She was my beacon all these years. I didn’t know her name, but I knew she was on the same coast. I whispered to her on the wind: I will find you one day.

That day came in 2020, through a match to a distant cousin on Ancestry.com. After being vetted by all involved, I was invited to visit. My father emailed me and was now happy and able to digest the “surprise” in his 87th year. Though Covid-19 was in full tilt, I loaded up my car, got new tires, and drove the 20 hours into Canada to meet everyone.

As luck would have it, they all lived in the same town. I had been born in Canada and so was admitted into the country, despite the border being closed. Flashing red lights signaled “Border Closed,” adding to the excitement of finding my father at long last.

In the one month we had together, we laughed and marveled at similarities. He had been a radio and television engineer, and I was a radio announcer and producer. “What are the chances of that?” he said. Acknowledging our shared love of radio stories and music, he played me one of his favorites: Hotel California by the Eagles. I told him I had learned to drive on that song and that I knew every word. We shared many other interests and he told me about my mother. He called her by a nickname, and although I didn’t ask questions about his disclosures, I was over the moon to be hearing about their time together.

He never knew about my birth. When he saw me, he said, “I certainly don’t need a DNA test to know you are mine, now that I see you.” I look the most like him, more so than his two other daughters.

He would only live eight more weeks after I left.

While he was on his deathbed, I sent Hotel California to him via his Blackberry. In the last picture of I have of him alive, he is holding the Blackberry toward the camera with a delighted grin, showing me the song playing while he listens to it. “Message received,” he liked to say.

Now, as I drive north again for this second visit, Hotel California plays on the radio. I know he is grinning still, happy I am returning. I have his hockey cap with me on the dashboard. He is in my heart and the music he shared with me during my visit hits me like an arrow when I hear it now, bringing tears to my eyes. 

Still, I needed that goose to fly by once I drove onto the ferry; I needed reassurance for this second visit. I needed a hand to hold. Will they still like me? Will I have a place in their lives? Do I want a place in their lives? Who am I now that I have found them? 

My questions were answered once I arrived. Sitting at the table, my brother-in-law said, “You really look so much like him. It’s like he is still here when I look at you.” My sister nods, and so does her daughter, my niece.

I feel so lucky that I found them in time, and that I’ve found acceptance. While there isn’t any perfection in reunion, there is family.