Mom died when I was a teenager.

I can’t remember any of us ever talking about where she was born, where she spent her childhood, or where she daydreamed as a teen. She just appeared. As Mom.

We knew everything about Dad–where he was born, where he went to school, our fascinating roots on both his mother’s and father’s sides. All the way back to the 1600s.

Well, two months ago, I looked, as if for the first time, at my mother’s birth certificate. And there it was: Woman’s Hospital, New York City! Mom was born at a hospital on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, only blocks from where my son, Lorenz, was born seventy-six years later. A whole new world opened to me. There I was, looking closely at my grandmother’s maiden name, and her place of birth—New Jersey. My grandfather, whom I never met, was born in Missouri. Imagine that.

I was thrilled and saddened, shamed at years of learned disinterest and determined to find the family roots that led to this woman, Mom–and to me, and to Lorenz. And learn, I did.

Mom, you had a fascinating history. I’m grateful for the search that led me to you, and I’m excited to share the geneological journey that took me there!