Numbers

Memoir

Jun 29, 2026

From the time I was nineteen, I was followed by two numbers: 52 and 73.

I lived in apartment 52. I worked at two In-N-Out stores in my early twenties. The one in Hemet was #52. The one in San Diego was #73. My first cell phone number ended with 52. The next number I had ended with 73.

Those are the big things I recall, but there were many others over the years. Probably all just a coincidence, but they felt meaningful. I do remember taking a number for a queue at the DMV, and it was 52. I had order numbers that were 52 or 73 on the receipts. I kept them for a while.

I asked a friend who does readings to tell me what those numbers mean. She told me that 52 (5+2=7) was about searching for truth, and 73 (7+3=10 → 1) was about identity and new beginnings. This made a lot of sense to me because I had been on a quest to understand where I came from and how the genes on my father’s side contributed to who I was. He died when I was 21. Just a few years after I had finally met him at 17.

Before Erich moved to Texas to be with me, he lived in Missouri. While I was up there visiting, he gave me his debit card to pick up some food. I asked for his PIN. Wanna guess what it was? 5273. I think I screamed. When I asked him how he came up with those numbers, he told me he just liked the pattern of it on the keypad. It felt like fate.

In 2015, about three weeks before I married that man, my biological father’s mother reached out to me. I met her once after I met my father. She was nice, but I don’t think we said more than a few words to each other. I got her number and called her once in 2006 or 2007 to ask a question about her family lineage. We spoke briefly, but she was happy to answer my questions and confirm what I had found through Ancestry dot com. We had not spoken since. I never got the impression she was interested in having a relationship with me.

Then, about nine years later, she messaged me on LinkedIn saying that my profile had popped up in her feed several times and that if I wanted to get in touch, she would enjoy hearing from me. I was over the moon and responded immediately with my phone number. The joy I felt from knowing that she wanted to know me was overwhelming. She called me the next day, and we spoke on the phone for some time. As soon as we hung up, I wrote her a lengthy email. Then, I found two of my three half-siblings on Facebook and sent them each a message, explaining that I was their sister and that I would love to be in touch if they wanted to.

My grandmother and I continued to email each other, and in 2018, the project I was on won an award. The gala and awards ceremony were in Long Beach, CA, so I wrote to my grandmother to ask if she might have time for me while I was out there. We met for brunch, and my dad’s sister came, too. It was one of the best days of my life.

Brunch was a buffet with several tables filled with any kind of breakfast item you could want, including an entire station dedicated to eggs Benedict, which has been my all-time favorite since I discovered it as a teen. I headed that way immediately, and so did my grandmother. She told me it was her favorite, and I excitedly told her, “Mine too!” No one on the other side of my family likes it.

Conversation flowed easily, and the three of us walked to a nearby antique store after brunch, where I bought a small framed print, and we had someone take our picture. I didn’t want to leave them. I loved them so much already.

My aunt moved to Washington a couple of years later. We swapped a few emails over the years, and then my grandmother died during COVID. The loss felt enormous. While I was grateful for what I had shared with her, all of the time we never got and never would was a punch in the chest.

I started digging into the family history again. In my search, I found a photo from my biological father’s high school yearbook. It was their sophomore football team. He was sitting in the center of the photo, wearing a jersey with the number 52 on it. To the right of him, a teammate wore 73.

Last year, Erich and I were in Missouri with his family to watch the Chiefs in the Super Bowl when I got a notification on Facebook Messenger. It was my half-sister. Ten years after I had sent her that message, she finally decided to respond. My revelation had shocked her, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know me, but had decided to at least reach out and see how things went. Again, I was flooded with joy, but also a little terrified. She was guarded, and I wasn’t sure if she would ever be really open to me. But we continued to share things over Messenger, and over time, she began to open up a little. She put me in touch with her mom, as well. I had not seen any of them since I was twenty-one, when I visited them one last time after learning that my bio-dad had passed away.

I decided to book a trip to Washington to see who I now call Auntie Lynn that year. I felt the urgency of time pressing down on me and wanted to spend as much time as I could with her. It was a wonderful visit. Erich and I stayed at her house, and she sat on the floor of her office with me as we sifted through loads of family pictures and cried together. She generously sent me home with several photos, including some of my great, great-grandparents. I cherish them all.

Last year, I had intended to go back to see Auntie Lynn again in the Fall, but my sister Penny (Weepy) had an aneurysm and died in October. I would fly to California instead. I told my half-sister and her mother that I would be out there and asked if they wanted to meet up. We ended up meeting at my sister’s mom’s house, where my dad had lived all his life. He had bought the house from his parents, and his wife stayed there and raised their children in it after he was gone. I had not been in that house for 28 years.

My dad’s wife opened the door, and we hugged. Then, I saw my sister.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” She responded.

We both were smiling wildly in a strange recognition of each other and laughed.

“You’re beautiful,” I told her, “Can I hug you?”

She said yes, and we hugged hard for a long time. I was crying, of course. But I could tell by how she hugged me back that it was meaningful for her, too.

The walls of that house still held the few memories I had with my dad there. As his wife walked me around, I broke into more tears. It was all so familiar. All so him, and yet he was not there.

We spent a long time together, talking and catching up on an entire lifetime. Later, my dad’s wife took me to visit my dad and his mother’s graves, both at the same cemetery. I finally got to say goodbye to them. The next day, I would say goodbye to Weepy.

It was all sad, happy, beautiful, and exhausting. More than anything, it was satisfying beyond anything I had experienced since meeting my father. Proof that all of it happened, and that I belonged to them.

I am still in touch with my half-sister and her mom. My other sister started reaching out a little, too. The connections I wanted for so long have finally started to take shape.

52 and 73 stopped showing up. I still have an attachment to them, but I don’t see them like I used to. I like to think my dad sent them to me as a beacon to help me find my way. Now that I have, I don’t need them any longer.