He wrapped his arms around me, but not before I saw the look on his face. I registered that I had never seen him look at me that way before. Not when my mother died. Not when our boy was sick. I would describe it as something bordering on pity. It wasn’t so much my future that was being irrevocably altered by this discovery—it was my past. Michael had already known this, of course, well before he looked up the toll-free number on Ancestry’s website. He had known when he first saw the surprising breakdown of my ethnicity. When a cousin who was a stranger had appeared along with my results like
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