They say grief has a way of unearthing truths we’d long buried – or perhaps truths we never even realised were there. When my father died, earlier this year, I thought I was prepared to face the memories, the keepsakes, and the echoes of a life that had shaped my own. What I wasn’t prepared for was a discovery that would completely alter my sense of who I thought I was.

Among the dusty boxes and neatly packed belongings, I found a birth certificate with a glaring blank where “Father” should have been. Alongside it was a document I’d never seen before, a Consular Repot of Birth Abroad, and a faded passport featuring my own childhood photograph. These might not have meant much on their own, but there was also a photograph – my mother, unmistakable even in her youth, standing next to a man I didn’t recognise. On the back, written in her handwriting, were the words: Tarrytown, NY, 1976.

For a moment, the air seemed to still. My mother, who left us when I was nine, had always been a mystery – an absence more than a presence. She existed in fragments of memory: her laughter echoing through our home, the warmth of her hand as she brushed my hair. But she also existed in her absence, in the silent void she left behind when she walked out of our lives.

David Ellison – Dad – was the constant in my life. He was the one who stayed, who raised me, who made sure there was always love even when there wasn’t always clarity. He never spoke of her after she left, and I never dared to ask. It seemed unkind to reopen wounds that time hadn’t healed. But now, standing amidst the remnants of his life, I realised there were questions I should have asked.

Who was the man in the photograph? Could he be my biological father? Was this the reason for the blank space on my birth certificate? And why Tarrytown, a place I’d never heard her mention?

In the months that followed, I wrestled with these questions. My grief for Dad became intertwined with an insistent curiosity about the life my mother had abandoned. Was it selfish to seek these answers now, when the man who raised me was no longer here to give his perspective? Or was it an act of understanding – not just for myself, but for the fractured family we had been?

As a journalist, I’ve spent my career – short though it may be at this point – telling other people’s stories, delving into their lives, their challenges, their triumphs. This time, the story was my own. And yet, it didn’t feel entirely mine. It felt shared – with my father, with my mother, with the man in the photograph, and with every person who’s ever wondered about the pieces of themselves they can’t quite put together.

This series is about more than me; it’s about the human desire to connect with our roots, even when those roots are tangled and uncertain. Along the way, I’ll meet people and visit places that will undoubtedly shape this story. Their names may be changed to respect their privacy, but their impact will remain.

Next stop: Tarrytown, New York, USA. A place I’ve never been but one that feels impossibly significant. I don’t know what I’ll find there, or whether the answers will lead to even more question. But I do know one thing: the pieces of the past I’ve been left with are not enough. © tessisamess