Veronica Unfiltered

By: Veronica

My mom served just eleven months at Bergstrom Air Force Base before being discharged. She was pregnant with me and refused to get an abortion. Summer of 1981, I was born. 😜

A Name Without a Father

She always said my father was a man named Darrell Hudson. But the truth is, she didn’t really know who my father was.

And for a long time, I believed her.

I carried that name in my mind for most of my life. I had a faint memory of him taking us school shopping at a mall. I remember being scared to go down the escalator—completely frozen, afraid it would swallow me up. He tried to make me go. I think he tried to spank me for refusing. I don’t remember if he actually followed through, but the moment stayed with me—the fear, the tension, the sense that I didn’t really know him.

Chasing a Name

As an adult, I started looking him up online. I studied his Facebook page. I wanted to see myself in his face. We had things in common—math, taxes—and I convinced myself that his son and my daughter looked alike. I tried to make him fit. I tried to make myself fit.

But when I met him in person, I knew. He wasn’t my father. There was no spark of recognition. No familiarity. He offered to take a DNA test. I declined. Maybe I didn’t want another disappointment spelled out on paper. Maybe I didn’t want to admit I’d spent my whole life chasing a name that didn’t belong to me.

The Test That Changed Everything

Years later, I took a DNA test through Ancestry, and that changed everything.

One of my closest matches was a girl listed as my paternal first cousin. We started talking. Together, we discovered that we both shared a DNA connection to a child fathered by Betty’s son. Betty—who I would later come to know as my aunt. That connection helped narrow things down to a set of three brothers. Any one of them could have been my father.

Meeting Cousin Paul

Around that same time, I met Cousin Paul. We connected while I was still trying to sort through names and locations. Paul helped put the puzzle together. He confirmed the brothers’ names and where they had lived. He gave me context. When we met in person, he didn’t hesitate. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “Yup! You family.”

It was simple. Direct. Sure. And for a moment, I let myself rest in that certainty.

Faces That Felt Familiar

One of the brothers—David—lived in Louisiana. We talked first on the phone. He told me about his childhood, how he’d felt like an outsider in his own family. He said I reminded him of Hattie. We exchanged photos, and he said I had her softness.

When we met in person, I noticed how our torsos matched—short and stocky. I pointed it out, and we both laughed. He told me I had his mother’s hair. That moment felt special. Not because I was sure he was my father, but because I saw myself in someone else for the first time. He asked if I’d brought the DNA kit with me. I hadn’t. But it meant something to me that he was open to it.

Letters and Calls

Another of the brothers lived in the Maryland/D.C. area. I didn’t wait for him to find me—I mailed letters to every address listed on Ancestry. Each letter included a short summary about who I was, what I was looking for, and how to contact me. He did. He called.

He had a military background and a calm, thoughtful demeanor. We talked on the phone. He didn’t hang up. He didn’t dismiss me. We never met in person, but he gave me space to speak, and I’ll always be grateful for that.

Silence from the Third

The third brother had already passed away. I reached out to his children. His daughter wasn’t interested in talking. His son and I connected briefly through Facebook Messenger. He seemed open at first. I called him once. He never answered. We never spoke directly.

A Video Call with Aunt Betty

One of the most powerful moments came when I got on a video call with Aunt Betty. I was nervous. Everything I’d heard about that side of the family made it sound fractured, tense, and guarded. My heart was pounding when she said she wanted to see me because, in her words, I “didn’t sound Black.”

But when she appeared on camera, I froze. Then I laughed.

“You look like me,” I said before I could stop myself.

She smiled. “You look like Hattie,” she said.

That moment meant more than she knew. She told me about the family, the brothers, the dysfunction, and the love that sometimes got buried underneath it all. I wasn’t just chasing shadows anymore—I was speaking to someone who could trace the map for me.

Stories from Paul

Later, I got to spend more time with Cousin Paul. He was just as warm as he’d been the first time. He shared more stories about growing up with the brothers, about serving in the military with two of them, and about what the family had been like long before I came searching. He helped fill in gaps I’d carried my whole life.

More than anything, Paul helped me feel grounded. I had spent so many years floating—untethered, unnamed. With Paul, I felt like I had something to hold on to. He gave me history. He gave me place. He gave me kinship.

Staying Connected

We still stay in touch—mostly through Facebook and occasional phone calls. After law school, and especially after I lost support from my son’s father, I didn’t have the time or flexibility to stay physically connected. But I try to show up digitally when I can.

Loss I Didn’t See Coming

There was grief, too. Quiet, sharp grief. I learned that my paternal grandmother had died the same year and month my son Ryan was born. I had been looking for her—looking for her family—right around the time she passed. I was just up the street and didn’t know. I felt like I lost her before I even found her. But maybe, just maybe, Ryan gained her spirit.

Still No Clear Answer

I still don’t know which of the three brothers is my father. I’ve gathered the pieces. I’ve followed the trail. I’ve done the work. But that answer may never come.

And no, I don’t feel like I belong. Not fully. Not yet.

The people I’ve met have been kind. The stories have mattered. But they haven’t filled the space that’s been empty my whole life. There are still questions that will never be answered, and ties that don’t quite bind. The connections are meaningful—but they don’t make me whole.

One Simple Question

If I could ask any one of those men just one thing, it would be simple: Which one of you is my father? That’s the only question I carry. I don’t need apologies. I’m not looking to rewrite the past. I just want to know.

What Might’ve Been

Sometimes I wonder what life might’ve been like if I’d had that answer as a little girl. If someone had told me I came from a line of military men. If someone had said there were people who could have raised me, people who would’ve claimed me. But then again… would it have made things better? Or just different?

My Mother’s Silence

I don’t think my mother’s silence was meant to punish me. I think it was simply the truth—she didn’t know. She’s admitted as much. Her past, her choices, her uncertainty—all of it shaped the blank space I was born into. She couldn’t give me answers she didn’t have. But that silence still echoed through everything.

A Taste of Family

When I spent time with Cousin Paul for the Fourth of July—twice—it felt joyful. I miss him. I think about how different things might have been if I’d grown up with people like him around. I struggle now to make space for family. I wasn’t raised with that rhythm. It doesn’t come naturally.

Distance Between Siblings

I didn’t grow up with my siblings in the traditional sense. Foster care, time, and separate lives created distance between us. We’re not disconnected, but we’ve never really had family routines or shared traditions to keep us closely knit. We each move through life in our own way.

One of my brothers struggles with mental illness. The other tends to keep to himself. Celeste passed away years ago, and I still think of her often. As for Wendy, Calandra, Angela, and Kaiya—we have love between us, even if it doesn’t always show up in the usual ways. We do not all share the kind of bond that comes from growing up together. We did the best we could with what we were given.

Still Searching but not really

So no, I don’t feel torn between two families. I’m still figuring out what it means to even have one.

Some things stay unresolved. And maybe that’s the truth I’ve had to live with—not knowing, but still moving.

What about you?

1. Have you ever searched for a missing piece of your identity—something you weren’t sure you’d ever find?

2. How has silence or unanswered questions shaped your relationship with family?

3. Do you believe knowing where you come from changes who you are—or just how you see yourself?