An adoption tale turned sour

Last year, when I published my story on Twitter, I received an overwhelming number of responses. Some were messages of support. Others were families searching for missing relatives. And a few were leads. Leads that took months to investigate.

It was a difficult year. Not only because of COVID-19, but because I truly believed I had found someone who might finally unlock the mysteries of my past. Due to the pandemic, it took nearly a year for me to follow up on those leads and begin what would become my third roots journey.

After my interview with ANTV News, a woman named Suyatni contacted me via social media. What immediately caught my attention was her opening sentence: “You remember the fire that burned down our house, because of somethingyour father did.”

In the interview, I had briefly mentioned remembering a house on fire, without ever going into detail. That alone made me pause.

Ana from Mijn Roots noticed the similarity between our stories and suggested taking a DNA test. I had done my weeks before my Twitter publication, and this was indeed a logical second step. Unfortunately, due to the pandemic, it was difficult to deliver a DNA kit to Suyatni's home address, and it took me more than 8 weeks for her to receive it. She had to do the test herself due to COVID-19 and sent it to Ana in Surabaya, who then sent it to me in The Hague. I was so convinced that she could be it that I decided to send the test to Consanguinitas, which is much more expensive, but the results would be available after 10 days, instead of 6-10 weeks of MyHeritage. Unfortunately, I received unexpected feedback that there was not enough DNA to pull a full profile. I was devastated, we had to do another sample and with the continuing lockdown, it took another 6 weeks before we were successful. This time Ana asked one of her searchers to do the test and she, once again, sent it to me in The Hague. I chose to send it to DNA Diagnostics Centre because I found their overall service cheaper, and since I had already spent so much money on DNA tests, I wanted to keep the costs low. When the results came in, my stomach turned upside down. It showed me that there was no chance that we could be mother and daughter (biologically).

At first, I was suspicious. Publicity, especially around stories like mine, can attract people with unclear motives. Communication through Google Translate didn’t help either. As useful as it is, it’s a blunt instrument for something as delicate as memory, trauma, and identity. When my friend Tazia, a native Bahasa Indonesia speaker, stepped in to translate, Suyatni’s story suddenly became clearer and more disturbing.

She claimed that our house had been burned down by villagers in retaliation for my father, whom she accused of raping a girl from the village. I have very few memories of my father, but I do remember him as abusive, both toward my mother and toward me. As painful as it was, this accusation did not feel impossible.

Suyatni also told me that her daughter, my supposed half-sister, had recognised me on television from an old photograph from 1979. She said my real name was Widyawati, that I was born on 16 September 1975, and that I had a biological brother named Andhika, a well-known Indonesian singer from the Kangen band. That part felt almost too extraordinary. Still, she shared so many details that closely matched my own memories that I couldn’t dismiss her outright. By then, I had already learned a hard truth: when searching for your origins, you’re forced to make your private memories public. I shared most, but not all, of what I remembered, holding back certain details to see whether her story would hold up. With the help of friends who spoke Bahasa, we spoke to her directly. She was emotional, patient, and detailed. She spoke about Yogyakarta, the Kraton, Lampung, ferry rides, factory grounds—things that aligned eerily well with the fragmented images I carry from early childhood. Still, there were inconsistencies. Places I remembered differently. Details she could not recall.

At Mijn Roots' suggestion, we decided to take a DNA test. Because of COVID, everything took longer than expected. The first test failed due to insufficient DNA. The second test came back conclusive and devastating: biologically, she could not be my mother.

I was heartbroken. Not just because of the result, but because so much of her story had felt real. My adoptive parents, the searchers, and friends who had spoken to her all believed she wasn’t fabricating her story. Still confused, I decided to do a third DNA test. Maybe there would be another match. Maybe some clue. At the same time, I knew one thing for certain: I needed to meet her in person to see for myself.

After months of delays, I finally travelled to Indonesia in 2021. I deliberately limited media involvement, choosing only BBC Indonesia and the Straits Times. This journey needed to be about my search, not a spectacle. The BBC later proposed documenting my journey, a project that would become Mencari ibu I and II

After months of delays, I finally travelled to Indonesia in 2021. I deliberately limited media involvement, choosing only BBC Indonesia and The Straits Times. This journey needed to be about my search, not a spectacle. The BBC later proposed documenting my journey, a project that would become "Mencari Ibu."

My first goal was to confront Suyatni face-to-face and ask her why the DNA did not match. My second goal was to find confirmation of something I had long suspected: that I was a victim of child trafficking.

She told me that she had temporarily left me with a woman named Maria so she could work. When she returned, Maria allegedly demanded money she could not pay and refused to return it to me. On her final attempt, she was told I had already been sent abroad.

She recognised me immediately in a childhood photo and identified Maria as the woman who had cared for me in the orphanage. Her timeline matched exactly with my adoptive parents’ arrival in Jakarta. For the first time in decades, my past began to feel coherent. I felt seen. Validated. Victorious, even.

That feeling didn’t last.

During our filmed meeting, inconsistencies multiplied. She gave different answers than before. She suddenly claimed my name was Widyastuti, not Widyawati. She confidently named the current Sultan when asked about the Kraton. Addresses didn’t check out. Locations could not have existed at the time she described.

My confusion turned into unease

In Lampung, more discrepancies surfaced. Houses she identified hadn’t existed in the late 1970s. When pressed, she became increasingly emotional and evasive. That night, she abruptly announced she had to leave immediately because her husband threatened her. The timing felt off. Sleep didn’t come.

After she left, we learned she had been seen calmly drinking coffee with two men early that morning. Something shifted in me then. The story no longer felt tragic; it felt unstable.

Before leaving Indonesia, I confronted her one last time. She cried. Clung to me. Repeated that she had given birth to me. But by then, the damage was done.

The final confirmation came when I contacted Andhika. He did not recognise her. His mother was alive and living with him. I felt ashamed. Foolish. And then, strangely, relieved.

When you search for your biological family, you expose yourself completely. There is no safe way to do it. I could not have prevented this, and I refuse to blame myself. Still, the emotional toll is real. After already surviving one false reunion in 1991, this experience cut deep.

What did she gain from it? I still don’t know. She never asked me for money or favours. Whether she lied intentionally or was lost in her own version of the truth may never be clear.

What is clear is this: sometimes the search does not end with answers, but with acceptance.

Acceptance that some stories will remain unfinished.

Acceptance that identity is not only about origins, but about survival. Acceptance that letting go can be as powerful and as painful as holding on. For now, I am learning to live with that.