“Let me go back to the beginning.” As a storyteller, this is something I always say. It makes my stories long, but it adds context. Ironically, I never knew the beginning of my own story — who I was or where I came from.

Born in California in 1962, I was relinquished at birth and adopted at 4 weeks old. I grew up in Palos Verdes, CA, with my older brother — also adopted — and a younger sister who wasn’t. We knew we were adopted, but discussing it was discouraged. “You don’t look like sisters” was a common remark I heard growing up.

I had a wonderful childhood filled with freedom to explore, play music, and even attend horse camp. My obsession with travel began early—I lived in Thailand in 11th grade and France in college. Although I initially planned to go to medical school, my love for languages and travel led me to major in French and international relations. In graduate school, I met Nick, the love of my life, who shared my wanderlust. Together, as an American diplomat and an international teacher, we spent 30 years abroad with our child and cats.

At 56, I learned my birth name was Jeane Ann Carothers, and I was born at the Long Beach Children’s Home Society. Despite California’s closed records law, I uncovered my birth parents and three siblings through sleuthing and Ancestry.com. Both parents had passed, so I found and lost them on the same day.

While the COVID pandemic delayed my reunion plans, I recently met my siblings Jolie and Nathan and their families. Last week, I spent four days with Jolie, talking endlessly. Like me, she begins her stories with, “Let me go back to the beginning.”