I am so lucky. So fucking lucky. They love me so much. They have taken such good care of me. If I do this thing, I have to make sure they know that they’re the best parents any kid could ever wish for.

And that isn’t what this is about, after all. It’s not about my wanting something else, or even wanting something more. Wanting to know about my history doesn’t mean wishing for a different one. And who appreciates history more than my parents? They both majored in history!

If I do this right, they will understand. I have to believe that.

I open my computer and find several websites where I can upload my DNA to be connected with anyone who shares my genes. My heart pounds at the idea of being able to send off a sample as soon as tomorrow.

It occurs to me that my parents will be gone at least four hours in the morning — more than enough time to mark my birthday in the most important way possible. But as the possibility threatens to become a reality, the grip of anxiety tightens, and I find myself leaning toward the source of comfort and support I’ve come to depend on so much these last weeks.

I write: Sam? Are you free in the morning? I know it’s dumb, because it’s just putting my saliva sample into a mailbox, but I’m a nervous wreck. Could use the moral support.

Her reply comes quickly: *will be there with the swiftness of a hot-sauce-fueled dragon bearing a hot-sauce-fueled robot*

I smile. She’s nothing if not reliable. 10:00?

She says: Perfect. Hey, Zoe?

Yes? I write.

She responds: Am I the first to say happy birthday? *points at clock*

It’s exactly midnight. I write: You are indeed.

She says: Happy birthday, Zoe. I’m awfully glad you were born. *robot heart sings in the key of Z-sharp, causing cacophony of atonal rings and beeps*

I laugh at her goofy startalk, and of course I want more. If she’s up for it, there’s nothing I could use more than some startalk or maybe even a foray into Starworld.

I write: *tightens wires in an attempt to tune* *clutches ears as you start trilling Happy Birthday in a minor key*

She responds: *shoves burrito into facehole to reduce noise pollution emissions* *ducks as Humphrey swoops in, having smelled hot sauce*

My heart soars. We’re off! I climb under my covers with my phone.