A little over four years ago, I sent my saliva sample to Ancestry for genetic testing. During a class, my physics instructor shared how a DNA test revealed surprising truths about her heritage, including unexpected African ancestry that contradicted her mother's claims of Native-American roots.

I learned that she was only six months younger than me and had been a physics educator for nearly two decades. Intrigued yet doubtful about the accuracy of DNA tests, I became more open to the idea after discussing it with her.

My grandmother frequently recounted stories about our family’s Native-American heritage, but as time passed, her claims grew increasingly dubious; what started as five tribes turned into seven. My skepticism deepened as I researched online, gaining access to a wealth of information.

I was also largely in the dark about my father, relying solely on my mother’s accounts. She maintained he was Irish, attended Yale, and that his full name and birthdate were recorded on my birth certificate. However, inquiries at Yale yielded no results for Christopher Charles Crowley.

At one point, I even enlisted a private investigator to search through public records, but he concluded that either my father didn't want to be found or my mother's information was incorrect.

Despite occasional searches online and through social media, I found nothing. By the time I returned to school in my late thirties, I had almost given up hope.

Then something unexpected happened:

I hoped to uncover accurate details about my father's lineage but never anticipated actually connecting with him. When I stumbled upon the name Catherine Crowley, it confirmed my mother's claims about my father's identity—something I had increasingly doubted.

I suspect he might also have Jewish roots.

It took time for me to gather my thoughts and reach out to Catherine. My initial message was sent in January 2018, and I noted she had been active on Ancestry just six months earlier. Yet, I received no reply.

After a few months, I tried again, still without a response. I was uncertain whether she was my grandmother, half-sister, aunt, or niece. However, with several family members having taken DNA tests since then, it has become evident that Catherine is indeed my half-sister.

The shared DNA percentages and centiMorgans between us are quite telling. I recently added the label "half-sister" to her match, feeling increasingly confident about this connection.

In December, I sent her another email, hoping the holiday spirit might inspire a response. My messages show as read, but she hasn't replied yet.

It’s frustrating because I believe she could provide me with valuable information about my father, while I know almost nothing. My inquiries have been gentle, focusing on simple answers—especially regarding medical history.

Additionally, I’m curious to learn if he has musical talent, as music comes to me quite naturally. My mother described their meeting at a dance club, noting his impressive dancing skills. They were together for about a year, but after she became pregnant and informed him, he vanished from her life.

She never sought child support, and I’ve often pondered if fear of that kept him away. But now, at 45 years old, that concern seems trivial.

There are very few instances in my life when I’ve felt so dependent on another person, and it’s ironic that it’s in relation to my half-sister. Over the past four years, I’ve searched for her multiple times without finding a suitable lead.

As St. Patrick's Day approaches, and after reading Misty Rae's stories about her experiences in Ireland, thoughts of Catherine and my father linger heavily on my mind.

Thus, this narrative unfolds.

I hope that perhaps someone reading this story might be the crucial link in piecing together the mystery of my family history.