It was a Monday morning in late November. I was 38 years old, living in Brisbane, Australia — a New Jersey girl who had married an Australian and built a life on the other side of the world. The summer heat was already pressing through the windows, carrying the smell of frangipani as I checked my email.
One subject line jumped out at me: Your AncestryDNA™ results are ready.
It had been a Christmas gift from my in-laws. A lighthearted joke — let’s see how Irish you really are. I clicked it expecting percentages, not an earthquake.
Celtic. English. French Canadian. Germanic. A small trace of Ashkenazi Jewish.
No Eastern European.
