Fabiana - Part 2
In 2025, thanks to my hard work, the company I work for rewarded me with a wonderful trip to paradise. There, relaxing in those Caribbean waters and free from the hustle and bustle of the city, I discovered a place where the soul is free to converse with oneself—and also with those coworkers who are always in a rush, just like me.
There we were with Samy, reflecting on our lives, when, of course, the topic of adoption came up again. She asked me, very confidently: “Why don’t you look for your siblings?”. I gave her the same answer as always—that I wasn’t interested, that the matter was closed.
However, fate had other plans. In the summer of 2026, I heard about the episodes of *La voz del hijo*, an incredible podcast. The stories resonated deeply with me, so skillfully guided by Flor Lalor. That’s how I got in touch with Luli. Her story had moved me so much that we ended up talking on the phone for quite a while. She encouraged me to look. And so, with that push of courage, I went back to look at my papers—the ones Mercedes had given me at the Civil Registry twelve years ago.
Luli told me that Mercedes no longer worked at that office and that Cecilia was there now. She suggested I send her an email. I sat down with my documents, put together the PDF files, and sent them to her. The email address was the same one I’d written to Mercedes a long time ago: derhum_dgrc@buenosaires.gob.ar. The email of truth!
About fifteen days later, I received a phone call. It was Cecilia. She was very kind and empathetic—she became a true fairy godmother of identity. She asked me if I had received the email with the requested information, and while I was talking to her, I ran to the computer. I opened the attachments, and there they were: the names of my biological siblings. A brother four years older than me and a sister one year older. I was the third child, the youngest.
In that instant, a door opened to the true story of my birth mother, Hilda.
I’m Fabiana. For many years, I planted roots as an early childhood educator, and today I help others find their home. In my own life, home became whole when I embraced the truth and finally came to know my own story.
Years earlier, I had gone to see her to get to meet her, but I didn’t have the chance to talk to her. She wouldn’t see me. She opened her door and shut it immediately. So I returned home without any answers to all the questions I had bottled up inside.
I decided not to go back and to accept her rejection, which surely had its reasons and must have been sacred to her—and that deserves respect, not judgment.
I used to check the voter registry every time there was an election to confirm she was still alive, until one day, while looking up the polling place assigned to her, the notation “DECEASED” appeared. The door had closed for good.
Now that Hilda was no longer here, there were no more closed doors preventing me from writing another chapter. Therefore, these siblings were the ones who held the information I’d never had before:
Who was she? What had happened? Anyway, curiosity was driving me, but how was I supposed to introduce myself to them now?
My psychologist, Patricia—who is highly skilled in family issues, trained in systemic therapy, and familiar with my history—was the key person who helped me piece together the puzzle and plan how to introduce myself. It wasn’t easy; I didn’t even know if they were aware I existed.
After exploring various ways to reach out to Marcela—whom I found because her Instagram was public and she sings beautifully!—I realized I needed her phone number. That’s when the odyssey began. I scoured her Instagram thoroughly to try to find someone close to both her and me who could serve as a bridge. That’s how Nora came into the picture. She didn’t have her phone number either, until a friend managed to get it. It was quite the detective game, but those who seek, find. There were no doubts, and I had faith to spare.
I spoke with Nora, who was very kind to me. She confided that they knew nothing about a third sister. Once I was certain they were unaware of my existence, I knew I had to prepare myself properly to take the plunge. After much thought, I decided to introduce myself via email; it seemed to me the most respectful and appropriate way, since she could read it alone and reflect on it at her own pace.
One Friday night, I sat down to write to her, starting from the present: who I was, what I did for a living, and how I had come to find her. I wrote that I had always known I was adopted, that I had obtained all the information from the Civil Registry, and that my birth mother was Hilda, her mother.
The next day, Marcela replied. She was in shock, but happy, convinced that the Virgin Mary had brought us together.
Shortly afterward, we met. We had lunch and talked nonstop until dinner. There was so much to talk about. When she looks at me, she sees her mother physically: she says I’m just like her in my gestures, the way I speak, and the way I walk. In short, cellular memory at its finest.
We shared much of our life stories, and today our family has grown. We’re building a beautiful bond as sisters who’ve found each other after half a century.
I also met my biological brother, and we’ve been exchanging messages and voice notes; he’s very kind and empathetic, and he welcomed me with great emotion.
I found them after overcoming so many fears, secrets, lies, and cover-ups—all while walking the path of piecing together my true story, not the one they told me.
Because knowing our history isn’t a privilege—it’s a right.
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