A shaft of late-afternoon light illuminated dust motes dancing like spirits awoken from the dead. Beneath them, remnants from the past emitted a musty odor. Deirdre pushed back in her chair and sneezed. Her twenty-five-year-old daughter, Ashley, leaned over the table and sifted through the items like a child on a treasure hunt. Pale blue envelopes with what had once been colorful airmail stamps; letters in faded ink detailing lives lived long ago; yellowed obituaries from Irish newspapers; medals from serving in that country’s army and this country’s navy; Polaroids with scalloped edges and forgotten faces.

Ashley’s fingers, stained from her artwork, lifted a military medal with a threadbare banner. “Grandad, was this your father’s?”

He grunted with a nod.

“From Ireland’s War of Independence?”

“Yes.”

“How long after that did he and your mother emigrate?”

“I was a year old.”

“So little to be left behind without your parents…”

“They were desperate times.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and rubbed it under his nostrils. “My grandmother in Dublin took good care of me.”

It had been Ashley, frustrated by her mother’s inability to provide any insight into her family’s past, who suggested this visit. Her grandparents’ response was to offer her a box from their basement, which she eagerly accepted, spilling its contents onto their dining-room table.

She picked up a letter. Originally white stock, it was now ancient ivory, soft as a tissue. Ashley squinted at the faded handwriting, its smooth, even loops like waves lapping at a shore. “Grandma, look at this! It’s dated March 20, 1928.”

Eileen took the letter from her granddaughter, but her eyes looked vacant.

“Do you know who it’s from?”

“What, dear?”

“Who wrote the letter?”

“Oh, probably one of my aunts.” Her arthritic fingers lowered the page back onto the heap. “Some of my father’s family still live in the farmhouse he grew up in.”

“They’re still there?”

“Not like us Finans,” said her grandfather, “always on the move.” He grasped the back of his chair and swung his legs out to stand.

“John, where’s your cane?” Eileen asked.

“I don’t need that thing.”

Crossing the room, he dropped into his armchair and switched on the lamp. Light spilled over furniture, artwork, antiques accumulated over a lifetime in the spacious home of Deidre’s childhood, all crammed now into this assisted-living apartment.

The clock on the mantel chimed four times, reminding her of the traffic they would face getting home. “Ashley, we should go.”

Deirdre kissed her parents’ soft cheeks and smiled, her dimple appearing on her right cheek. It was a dimple that no one else in her family had, a source of relentless childhood teasing. Her mother, admonishing the other four, had said it showed that Deirdre was special.

Outside, Ashley slid into the passenger seat of her mother’s BMW while Deirdre checked Waze for the quickest route to her daughter’s apartment.

“You’re not driving me into the city at rush hour!” Ashley protested. “That’s ridiculous. From the station here I’ll be at Grand Central in an hour, and you’ll be home by then.”

She pulled her seatbelt over the baggy clothes she insisted on wearing. Deirdre thought they made her look waifish. She had bought stylish dresses that would flatter her daughter’s petite figure, but Ashley rarely wore them.

“Anyway, Ethan and I are meeting friends at the Campbell Bar before dinner.”

Ten minutes later, Deirdre pulled into the Tarrytown station and double-parked.

“I’ll come up soon, and we can work on the family tree some more,” said Ashley. Her lips brushed Deirdre’s cheek before she rushed to the platform.

In a fleeting moment, the train disappeared down the southbound track with Ashley. Deirdre watched it go and thought about her intent daughter, determined to unveil the history of her mother’s family. But Deirdre’s relatives didn’t talk about the past, unlike her husband’s extended Italian family, who eagerly shared stories of their ancestors in the old country—tales that both of Deirdre’s children never tired of.

The Friday afternoon traffic on the Tappen Zee bridge didn’t fluster Deirdre, but why was someone beeping their horn? Did they think it would improve the situation? She felt like getting out and lecturing to them, the way she did to her Vassar students, then chuckled, remembering her son as a teenager moaning in embarrassment when she acted that way.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Tony, her husband—he had reserved their usual table at Sardella’s and would meet her there. Their favorite restaurant was a block from his law office and a five-minute drive from their house.

Deirdre looked out over the long line of unmoving cars to the Hudson. A sailboat tacked up the river. Her grandparents had taken her and her four siblings to its shore for picnics. They had told stories of the little people who lived in the fields and sung silly songs: “Mother caught a flea, put it in the tea.” But questions about their lives in Ireland were never answered. “We’ll just leave the past be,” they said.

She would gladly return to that time of innocence, if it weren’t for Ashley’s dogged curiosity. Initially she had welcomed her daughter’s interest in her side of the family, enjoying the time they spent together building an online tree. But then Ashley pointed out that they had no record of her mother’s birth. Deirdre searched through the den. There were drawers full of files related to the purchase of the house and old tax returns, but no birth certificate. In the attic, she opened boxes of old photographs and found Matthew’s and Ashley’s childhood drawings. They sent her down memory lane but revealed no birth certificate. She even called her mother, but Eileen was no help.

“Oh, dear, I’m sure I gave all five of you those things years ago.”

“Well, what hospital was I born in? I can look it up that way.”

But Eileen didn’t seem to know the answer. Was her mother’s dementia really so bad?

Deirdre opened the car window for fresh air, then closed it against the stench of exhaust from the truck in front of her and turned up the air-conditioner’s fan. Her undergraduates’ end-of-term papers, stacked on the passenger seat, fluttered in the gusts from the vent. She had planned to grade them early on during her spring break, but her mind had been too unsettled by her search.

The host at Sardella’s greeted Deirdre warmly and led her to the table where Tony sat, his head bent over a brief. When he saw her, he stuffed the paperwork into his satchel and stood to embrace her. His aftershave, a mixture of lemon and bergamot, was familiar and comforting. He seemed eager to lose himself in the meal, the wine, their plans for the weekend ahead.

But she wanted to broach the childhood taunts that had come back to haunt her. Was it really possible that she wasn’t the child of the parents who had raised her?

“Tony, there’s something I need to talk through with you.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been distracted lately.” His brown eyes studied her. “What is it?”

She had expected his smooth lawyerly manner to calm her as it always did, and she listened attentively as he pointed out the pros and cons of pursuing a birth certificate.

“There’s no need for it. Ashley can build the tree without it. If you track it down and find out you were adopted, which I’m sure you weren’t, it will just be upsetting, for you and for everyone else.” He urged her not to pursue the issue.

It was the first time his advice didn’t sit well with her. The question troubled her throughout the weekend.

Monday morning, Deirdre padded through the house in her slippers, feeling lost in the quiet after Tony left for the courthouse. Now that Ashley and Michael no longer lived in their rambling Victorian, it felt like a cold tomb whenever she was here alone. The pine boards creaked underfoot. The crowded shelves of the living room needed dusting. In the den, she sat down heavily in her wooden swivel chair, determined to start the task of grading her students’ papers. She imagined them all relaxing somewhere warm and balmy, among palm trees—drinks with cocktail parasols bobbing in plastic cups.

Then her eyes strayed to the messy pile of family research that she and Ashley had accumulated. Her missing birth certificate plagued Deirdre with unease. She couldn’t escape it. Suddenly, in a decisive movement, she opened her laptop, pulled up her browser, and typed how to find out if you’re adopted.

The results were not helpful: ask your parents, search records for your birth certificate, try DNA testing. She had done those tests. They showed she was of Irish descent, like both her parents. But she had declined the option to join an online registry that would locate her biological family members. She couldn’t imagine anyone other than her parents and her four siblings as family.

She looked at the clock, surprised that it was already noon. She had accomplished nothing. What time would it be for her older brother, on the west coast? She called Patrick’s number.

“Hey, D, what’s up? When are you coming to visit? It’s been too long.”

The noise of construction machinery was loud in the background.

“Oh, you’re on a site. I’ll call back later.”

She hung up, frustrated.

It had been a long time since she’d seen Patrick. She missed the days when they had lived closer and could meet easily for a drink and a talk. Leaning back in her desk chair, she imagined flying out to California for a few days. Tony was busy with his law cases; she knew he wouldn’t mind. Their tabby cat rubbed against her ankles. She ignored it, reached for the keyboard, and searched for flights from New York to San Diego.

Patrick’s driver met Deirdre outside the Jet Blue terminal. She sat in the back seat of the limo and watched the nightlife of San Diego pass by. Although she knew Patrick had done well, she was surprised by the limo, then amazed by his home at the end of a long winding driveway. A housekeeper welcomed her and carried Deirdre’s suitcase through expansive, shadowed rooms to the back of the house, apologizing for Patrick and Cindy’s absence. “They’re attending a fundraising gala in town.”

Deirdre followed the woman out of the house and down a garden path. Inside the guest cottage, tired from the flight, she lay down on the luxurious bed and closed her eyes.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, moving in the warm breeze. The sound of a lawnmower droned in the distance. Deirdre pushed herself up against the cushioned headboard and breathed in air scented with the roses outside. She got up and let the rainfall shower massage her skin until it turned pink.

Retracing her steps from the night before, Deirdre rubbed lavender and thyme leaves between her fingers, releasing their fragrance. Past the bath houses, she could see a hot tub and a pool. She crossed an outside dining area that was the size of her house.

Inside, the floors of the mansion were made of ceramic tiles, the walls adorned with framed splashes of bold color. She stepped gingerly through a room with white leather couches that she couldn’t imagine being comfortable in, and moved into a dining room with an endless table. Did they really entertain that many people?

Following the scent of coffee, she finally found the kitchen, where a white ceiling fan spun slowly. Underneath it Patrick and Cindy sat at a marble island, lost in their phones.

“Good morning,” Deirdre said.

She braced herself for Patrick, an ex-football player, to give her one of his bear hugs, but he moved toward her favoring one knee, his belly protruding over the top of his golf pants. “D,” he said, “it’s so good to have you here.” His arms wrapped around her in a comforting squeeze.

Cindy patted the white leather stool next to her. “Come, sit. Coffee?”

They ate fruit salad and quiche, talked about their jobs and their children. Cindy gave extensive details of their three kids’ latest accomplishments, Patrick checked his phone, and Deirdre’s mind drifted. She looked down at her lap and twisted her wedding ring.

“What’s up, D?” her brother said, putting down his phone. He had always had a keen sense of when she was troubled by something.

She hesitated, then said slowly, uncomfortable with the words, “I think I might have been adopted.”

Cindy lowered her coffee mug, its white edge marked with her red lipstick.

“I can’t find a record of my birth.”

Patrick frowned.

“Ashley has become obsessed with our family’s history. She’s building a tree online.” Deirdre raised her eyebrows apologetically at Patrick.

“We’ll just leave the past be,” said Patrick, mimicking the refrain they had heard so often in childhood.

“I can still hear Grandad’s voice saying that,” said Deidre.

Patrick chuckled. “Maybe Ashley will have more luck than we did.”

Cindy pursed her lips and looked at Deirdre, then Patrick. “Maybe they were just very private people.”

Dierdre remembered Cindy’s parents at their wedding—a quiet, stiff couple with no other children. They’d been nothing like her and Patrick’s family, always poking fun at each other.

“Before Ashley moved into the city last month, she searched for a record of my birth online but couldn’t find anything. Then I looked through the whole house for my birth certificate, but nothing turned up. Then I called Mom, and supposedly she gave them to us years ago. Do you have yours?”

Patrick shrugged and looked at Cindy.

Cindy looked pensive and sipped her coffee. “Remember that time we visited your parents, Patrick? It was years ago. We were planning the cruise we took the kids on, and we needed our birth certificates for the passport applications. Your mom said she had your original, and gave us that manila envelope.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“It wasn’t until after we got home that we realized it had all your siblings’ information in it too.”

Patrick’s phone buzzed, but he didn’t answer it.

“Where would we have put it?” Cindy asked, looking at him.

Patrick raised his shoulders. “Maybe where you keep our passports?”

Cindy rose to her feet. “I’ll go look.” Her Gucci loafers slid soundlessly from the stool to the floor. She was wider than Deirdre remembered.

Patrick sipped his coffee and checked his phone again.

Beyond the white kitchen, French doors led out to a deck decorated with colorful ceramic pots bursting with purple and pink fuchsia. A lawnmower as big as a car passed by. Then silence settled in, leaving Deirdre melancholy for the past, her close relationship with Patrick, their conversations. He had always looked out for her, always meant well, though sometimes he had frightened the guys who asked her out.

She turned to him. “You seem distracted.”

“Oh, sorry.” He looked up briefly. “We’re in the middle of selling off a development north of town. The investors are making a lot of noise over the price. Greedy bastards.”

She was taken aback by the nasty tone in his voice. He had changed. How many years had it been since she’d last seen him? Her son’s wedding, five years ago?

Cindy strode toward them, waving a manila envelope. “Found it,” she sang as her shiny red fingernails pulled open its clasp. “If I remember, there’s an envelope inside for each of you.”

She turned it upside down, and five business-size envelopes fell onto the marble island. Each bore a name in Eileen’s smooth script.

“We only opened Patrick’s,” Cindy said, sliding Deirdre’s toward her. To her husband she added, “We should mail these to the others.”

Patrick’s phone rang. “Oh, God. It’s the attorney—I need to take this.” He stood abruptly and left the room, the device clutched to his ear.

Cindy shrugged at Deirdre. “It’s like this with every deal. He becomes obsessed. I can’t wait till it closes.” She gathered up the empty plates and piled them in the sink.

Deirdre lifted the white envelope from the cold marble and turned it over. It was sealed.

“More coffee?”

Cindy’s voice was a distorted buzz in her ear as Deirdre wondered what the envelope’s contents would reveal. She wished she could be alone.

Then the doorbell chimed, like an orchestra playing. Cindy’s loafers moved silently away across the tile floor.

Deirdre’s heart thudded against her chest. She closed her eyes and wished now that Tony was with her. He’d been by her side since high school, present for every important event in her life. He was good at handling difficult situations—a result partly of his years of presenting to judges and jurors, but also of his innate personality, calm and steady.

With shaking hands, she laid the unopened envelope back on the marble island and stared at it, terrified that it would change her world.

The afternoon was a blur. Patrick went to a meeting, leaving Deirdre in Cindy’s care. They walked in and out of boutique shops that Deirdre couldn’t afford. Over lunch at her club, Cindy introduced Deirdre to women she couldn’t relate to.

That evening Patrick insisted on taking her to their favorite restaurant, an ostentatious spot downtown. When they asked about the envelope, Deirdre told them she would open it when she was back home with Tony. Laughing, but not believing herself, she said, “It’ll prove he’s right, as always, and I’m concerned over nothing.”

But at night, alone in the dark of the guest cottage, Deirdre couldn’t sleep without knowing what was inside. She picked up the envelope and sat very still with it trembling in her hand. Slowly she pulled the flap open, unfolded the paper inside, and read the printed words: “Order of Adoption.” They ripped her apart. She read until her tears blinded her and fell onto the form. Then she groped for her phone.

Tony, three thousand miles away, said, “Hold on a sec, I just walked in and I’m letting the cat out…”

She listened to the familiar sound of their back door open and close.

“Okay, hon, I’m here. How’s it going?”

Later, she had difficulty recalling exactly what they had said, except that Tony tried to calm her, telling her he loved her. “It will be fine. We have each other, the kids, our own family—nothing else matters. I’ll see you at JFK, hon. I love you.”

She sank back onto the luxurious bed, wrapped her arms around her body, and sobbed.

A mother giving up her infant is an unsettling thing. Adopting a child into a family is an admirable act. But the gene difference will present itself, in physical features, in personality traits, in feelings of belonging. With DEIRDRE, I explore both the connectedness and the detachment that an adopted person may experience in family life.

Deirdre’s childhood questions about her grandparents’ lives were never answered, and she has long ago abandoned any idea of learning about their Irish past. When her daughter, Ashley, begins to build a family tree online and can’t find a record of her mother’s birth, Deirdre searches for her birth certificate. She uncovers a sealed envelope addressed to her in her mother’s handwriting.

The adoption certificate inside confuses Deirdre at first. Then she experiences a deep sense of betrayal. Her sadness takes over and deepens. She becomes physically ill. A prescription from her doctor turns her world into a hazy fog. After weaning herself off the medication, Deirdre begins to process the fact that she was adopted as an infant and struggles with what to do with the information, if anything.

At odds with her husband’s desire to keep their family loop closed, Deirdre’s curiosity about her biological family takes hold, and she arranges to meet with a biological brother she finds online. His story of their deceased mother reveals another betrayal, more brutal than the first, and Deirdre takes a sabbatical from her work as a professor to travel to Ireland and learn the truth—the truth about her biological and adopted families’ intertwined pasts.

Building my own family tree online, I discovered things I never knew about my ancestors. In DEIRDRE, I explore what happens when an adoption is uncovered late in life and the repercussions that discovery has on the adoptee and her family members.