Several years ago when I was visiting relatives in California, one of my cousins asked me if I wanted to see a picture of her brother, Dave. Now, I know that she had one brother named Jamey who died tragically when I was 18.

He had been in the service, and when he came home, he enrolled in school to become a lawyer. He was riding a bicycle home after a study session one night when he fell and hit his head. His death at age 24 rocked the whole family.

But David? She went on to tell me that David was conceived and given up for adoption before the birthfather, my Uncle Jim, even met or married my mom’s sister. Dave finally decided to search for his parents when he was past middle age.

He was shocked to find that both of the people who contributed to his genetic makeup lived within a few blocks of each other, yet neither one knew it. Both were widowed. He found four half-sisters (my cousins) who had no idea he existed.

It took him a long time to get his birthparents to speak to each other, but after a lot of porch-sitting together, they decided to marry. The marriage lasted until Uncle Jim passed away.

I suppose every family has its secrets and skeletons packed neatly away. Adoption used to happen because it was shameful to a family that a child would be born out of wedlock. I’ve told you many times that Lenny and I adopted our children as infants. We were grateful for the young women who chose to carry their babies to full term, and make an adoption plan for them that included us. One of our sons has met his birthmother, and has introduced us to her. She and her husband have two children.

I had a reader write to me in response to something I wrote in my column a few years back. I kept thinking that his last name sounded familiar when it dawned on me: it was the same as my son’s birthmother whom we had just met.

In the course of our correspondence, he told me a few family facts which confirmed that he would be a cousin to my son. Yet he had no idea. I didn’t think it was my place to tell him because ultimately the story belongs to the birthmother.

My son was invited to an event with this family last summer. He said that initially there was some pointing and whispering. But he also said that each pointer and whisperer came up to him and introduced themselves, and told stories about how they fit into the life of his birthmother. No drama, just support. He had a ball. Then he came home.

Every adoption story has the potential for heartbreak. But when adoption is handled with honesty and class, it can be a story of fulfillment and healing.

Patty Luzzi has lived on the Eastside for 33 years. Readers can contact her at pattyluzzi@yahoo.com.