My niece places a chocolate cupcake on the table and sticks two candles into the slurry of frosting. Her two-year-old daughter sits at the kitchen table next to me, her seven-year-old sister across from her. My niece lights the candles and takes her place at one end of the table, and her mom, my half-sister, sits at the other, camera in hand.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday Auntie Lucia …”

It’s all I can do to keep it together. Those two candles represent a lot of stages in the journey to that kitchen table.

The candles illuminate the before and after of my search for my birth family. Before, I knew nothing. My origin was a dark corner in the cellar of my history. After I found the DNA string that clicked the light on, I could see that my birth mom and dad had an affair, chose not to keep me, got married nine months after my birth, and are still living, still married.

The two candles could also stand in for my two families. There was my adoptive mom, and her parents. My adoptive dad left when I was 3. I had one brother—he was also an adoptee. We were never close. Far from it. He’s had a lot of struggles in life, mental health being one of them. There were incidents with a Boy Scout hatchet, and throwing stars, all of which left their marks on the outside of my bedroom door, as well as a hall linen closet. Thankfully, no marks on me, but those dents in the hollow-core doors remained there as a constant reminder of his rage until my adopted family finally moved and the real estate agent made them replace the doors before showings could begin.

In my birth family, I have two parents, two half-sisters, two full brothers, and all of their children and their children’s children. A complete lack of response from one brother has left its mark on my heart, as has my parents’ refusal to meet or get to know me. Those doors are closed, locked, and while I wish I could replace them with screen doors that easily nudge open with a toe or a hip, I can’t. I can choose not to walk down that hallway and keep knocking, though. I navigate toward those who accept me–my sister-in-law and my half-sisters, and the brother who hasn’t put out a Welcome mat but hasn’t shut the door, either.

Those two candles also shine a light on the two communities I inhabit—one in which the fact that I’m adopted is something only I’m aware of, and one in which everyone present is an adoptee and there’s a common understanding underlying our diverse experiences. That second community has given me the perspectives and the tools to explore the dark corners of my life, turning lights on where needed, and closing doors when necessary.

All of these things come together in my head as I listen to those little voices singing “Happy birthday.” I think about all the denial, fear, rage, and grief I’ve had to slog through to get to this table where three generations of people related to me by blood have gathered to celebrate my birthday.

This weekend, I’m surrounded by what I lost, but also by what I’ve gained. On the nightstand next to the bed I’m sleeping in, a floral print taken by my birth father and sent to my niece as a gift leans against the wall. I notice his signature at the bottom when I reach for my phone, sitting next to it, and I take a photo of his photo, capturing his signature, like a tourist. That’s what I am — a tourist in my own family. Learning the history, taking photos, talking to the locals, studying old photos, watching gestures, and listening to verbal cadences like maps to myself.

I watch the candles flicker as my family sings. When they’re done, I release the lifelong wish swirling around inside me so it can find its form, take flight, and become real as I blow out the candles and we all clap our hands.