By Michelle Allen
Lately, life has been full in the best ways—warm Oklahoma evenings, long stretches of sunshine, and the simple joy of spending time with my boyfriend. Add in the final push of coursework for a couple of classes, and writing has taken a back seat. But even when I’m not at my keyboard, my mind keeps circling back to one mystery I’ve never been able to fully unravel.
I’m still tracing the ancestry on my father’s side, and his lineage—especially through his mother—remains a puzzle with missing pieces. Every time I think I’m close to understanding the story, another thread slips loose. And then came the biggest surprise of all: after years of searching, I finally found his birth certificate. But instead of the name I grew up hearing—Virsel Loretaus Newberry—the document held a completely different name altogether.
It stopped me in my tracks.
There’s something humbling about realizing that even the people we come from can hold secrets we may never fully uncover. It makes me wonder how many stories are tucked into the quiet corners of our family lines, waiting for someone to notice them. And it reminds me that mystery isn’t always a dead end; sometimes it’s an invitation—to look closer, to ask harder questions, to honor the parts of our history that refuse to be simple.
Maybe that’s the real mystery I’m learning to live with: not just who my father was on paper, but the deeper truth of where we come from, and how those hidden stories shape who we become.
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