Bill has spent his whole life overcoming an impoverished childhood of abuse and neglect in a small town with little opportunity. He has learned to cope with his depression by becoming a work-a-holic and focused entrepreneur, determined to love and provide for his children in order to break the generational dysfunction.
As Bill begins to close the door on his successful career and prepare for his well-earned retirement, his son decides to take an âAt Homeâ DNA test to explore deeper into his genetics and family tree. What Bill was not expecting was that this act of curiosity led to uncovering a family secret; that Billâs biological father was not the man who raised him, rather a man with uncanny similarities to the life he has lived. As the foundation of his identity begins to crumble, Bill is forced to navigate the emotional maze of unraveling the truth and who in his world knew this secret. What he realized that his discovery now provides such clarity to the thoughts and feelings that have haunted him his whole life.
A Life Half Told is an exploration of identity, love and the unexpected connections that redefine the essence of who we are
Bill has spent his whole life overcoming an impoverished childhood of abuse and neglect in a small town with little opportunity. He has learned to cope with his depression by becoming a work-a-holic and focused entrepreneur, determined to love and provide for his children in order to break the generational dysfunction.
As Bill begins to close the door on his successful career and prepare for his well-earned retirement, his son decides to take an âAt Homeâ DNA test to explore deeper into his genetics and family tree. What Bill was not expecting was that this act of curiosity led to uncovering a family secret; that Billâs biological father was not the man who raised him, rather a man with uncanny similarities to the life he has lived. As the foundation of his identity begins to crumble, Bill is forced to navigate the emotional maze of unraveling the truth and who in his world knew this secret. What he realized that his discovery now provides such clarity to the thoughts and feelings that have haunted him his whole life.
A Life Half Told is an exploration of identity, love and the unexpected connections that redefine the essence of who we are
Christmas
âSo, get a load of this one!â my eldest son Billy said to my wife over the phone. âIt looks like my DNA results say Iâm twenty-five percent Italian!â My wife, Kim, said later that she found it amusing, not alarming in any way, even though it was unexpected. It was just one of the many âwho woulda thunk itâ moments we often shared at dinner or over the phone. Both my wife and I and our kids had worked with the public for years. Imponderables were our meat and potatoes.
âHey, honeyâŚdid you hear that?â Kim yelled in my direction, through two rooms to the family room where I was ensconced in my after-hours recliner. âBillyâs DNA results say heâs a quarter Italian. Did somebody jump over the fence on your side of the family that we donât know about?â She gave up talking across the house and returned to our son. âIf this is true, your father better learn how to make sauce and meatballs on Sunday,â she said, and her lovely laugh bounced off the kitchen walls, warming the whole house.
I was taking my usual weekend retreat in front of the fireplace, allowing my cigar smoke to drift up the chimney and away into the manicured forest surrounding our home in upstate New York. I often watched mindless TV to unwind, with my dog Sadie sleeping by my side. That day it was Two and a Half Men. Not that it mattered. It was just white noise to distract me from the cares of the week. I could hear Kim putzing around the kitchen, cleaning up dinner, and talking to our son on speakerâthe comforting sounds of home.
Kim and Billy spoke almost every day. Billy was in his midthirties and moved out west to Nevada upon graduating college, but he and his mother had remained as close as they had always been. I spoke to him less frequently, but I kept up with him through his mother. And now, he had gone and turned Italian on me without even discussing the matter, and apparently, I was now signed up to make meatballs and Sunday gravy!
 I wasnât surprised when Billy decided to do one of those DNA kits. He had always been curious about anything scientific, and we encouraged him to follow what interested him. Kim was so excellent, seeing Billy for who he was and embracing that. It took me a little longer to accept that my son wasnât interested in Pop Warner football, Little League, or soccer. While most kids spent their summers playing kickball, swimming in their pools, and riding their bikes around the neighborhood, Billy asked to attend science camps for engineering and genetics. So we found physics and robotics programs through his school. He flourished, and made many friends who shared similar interests.
Since he was a kid, Billy had asked Kim and me endless questions about our family history. He seemed to enjoy making sense of his heritage. We told him everything we knew, which honestly wasnât much. In hindsight, not many of the stories we told him were accurate; they were more like legends passed down year after year. An oral tradition that changed a little each time the tale was told. Kind of like an intergenerational game of telephone.
Years earlier, my cousin, Denis, had embarked upon an extensive research project into our family tree, and we got a real sense of where we came from. Denis did it old school, with charts and diagrams all drawn out on graph paper. None of us questioned his results. Denis told us that he had traced our lineage to four Lithuanian brothers who lived in the New York Tri-State area in the first half of the last century. So, when my son came up with so much Italy in his veins, I assumed the Lithuanians might have also been part Italian.
It didnât seem like a big deal. We all knew what went on at Ellis Island in those days and how often mistakes were made. We figured somebody checked the wrong box in the early 1900s, and we laughed about it. It never even occurred to me that since my wife had zero Italian in her DNA, my quarter-Italian son would have to come from a half-Italian father. Sometime in the next few months, Kim took her DNA, and Billy started a family tree. Her results were predictable. Her ancestors came from England, Scandinavia, and Germany, which matched what we knew.
I didnât think about my genetic past again until Christmas morning the following year. All the kids were home for the holiday, and although it was almost noon, they were still asleep.
âSome things never change!â my wife said with a chuckle. âItâs eleven a.m. on Christmas morning, and we must wake the kids up.â Weâd been waking them up to open presents on Christmas morning for over thirty years. Our whole family was on restaurant time. We stayed up late and loved to sleep in, even on Christmas morning. This was all our fault, of course. Kim and I began a Christmas Eve tradition when the kids were toddlers. We would serve platters of finger foods for us and snacks for the kids, and weâd stay up late, playing board games, laughing, and enjoying this special time together. After our years working in some of the finest country clubs, the snacks became more extensive and turned into a charcuterie board of fine cheeses, pâtĂŠs, French baguettes, smoked mussels, oysters, and salami. We spent every Christmas Eve feasting on what we called âour trayâ full of delicacies.
This year, one by one, the kids came downstairs and found their usual place on the couch or the overstuffed leather chair. Everyone knew Dad had dibs on the recliner. Our artificial tree was now twenty years old but still had a great shape, and the branches remained full. We decorated it with our usual gold and red ribbons, bows and balls, and, most significantly, our cherished family ornaments. Our family legacy dangled on those branches: stars with our childrenâs kindergarten smiles, hand-painted snowmen, every family dog weâve loved, and destinations where we vacationed together. The tree was prettier and more meaningful every year.
âWho wants coffee?â Kim asked once everybody had managed to make their way downstairs. She was wearing the new pajamas I had given her the night before, following our traditional Christmas gift tradition. Bradley, our middle son, claimed his space on the couch. Bradley was tall like his brother, topping six feet two inches and just as bright. However, his interest was in business management, and he quickly changed his major to accounting after arriving at State University of New York at Geneseo. Like his brother, he got an excellent job out of college and began his career auditing with a local accounting firm. Like his parents, he turned out to be a workaholic, and quickly became the youngest VP in his company. Weâve always been so very proud of him.
With James Taylor Christmas songs playing softly in the background, my daughter Courtney grew impatient to open the presents. Even now in her thirties, she still loved the magic of Christmas. She was different from her older brothers, although just as intelligent and extremely funny. Blonde and beautiful like her mother, she didnât grow as tall as the boys. She has described herself perfectly on her Instagram account: âTeacher by day, wedding crasher by night, sangria drinking, puppy snuggling, sunshine loving life enthusiast!â.
Kim distributed the colorful packages from under the tree. We opened one at a time so that everyone could enjoy each gift together. Kim was an experienced and meticulous Santa. She always knew which gifts went to who and in what order, and everyone got most of what they asked for. I would take my usual spot in my recliner, watching as everyone opened their gifts one by one, groaning whenever they passed another gift my way. With every gift I received, I had a sense of unworthiness. Even though most of the time, it was your average Christmas essentials, socks, ties, and the occasional phone case, I always felt uncomfortable and wished they hadnât spent their hard-earned money on me.
Once all the gifts were opened, I went to the kitchen to make Christmas brunch. I was always the chef for this much-anticipated meal. âWait! Hereâs one more for you, Daddy,â Kim called to me, handing me a small, poorly wrapped box from behind the tree. I could always pick out Courtneyâs presents based on the lousy wrap job. I tore it open excitedly and saw âAncestryâ written on the front of the box. I looked at her quizzically. Why had she given me a DNA test for Christmas?
âCâMON! Billy took one, Mom took one, and I even did the doggie one on Tucker!â Courtney said, her big, brown eyes sparkling, with her smile lighting up the room. âNow itâs your turn!â
âIt would be interesting to see yours, Dad,â Billy chimed in. âYou never know what could show up.â
âThank you, sweetie,â I said, and hugged my daughter. I laid the kit next to my pile of loot under the tree and went off to make brunch. Our traditional family Christmas brunch menu was sausage, bacon, hash browns, and eggsâany style. We served up the eggnog and mimosas.
âHow do you want your eggs?â I shouted, without even turning from the skillet. It was scrambled for everyone except Billy and me, with our usual choice of eggs poached on English muffins. Eric, who Iâve worked with for over twenty years in three different clubs, always gave us a loaf of his homemade pumpkin bread, a dessert in and of itself. I never had to announce âbreakfast is ready.â I raised a family of eaters with good sniffers, so they readily followed the smell and gathered around the table just as I was pulling the cinnamon buns out of the oven.
This was our favorite time of the year, and the only holiday when we could all be together, just the five of us. In our role as a management team at a private country club, Kim and I have always worked through all the other holidays: Easter, Motherâs Day, Thanksgiving, Memorial and Labor Day, Fourth of July, and New Yearâs Eve. Private country clubs would be exceptionally busy on holidays, and it was up to Kim and me to ensure everything went smoothly. When the kids were little, Kim and I worked many nights and weekends and relied heavily on babysitters and family members to care for the kids. In the summer, we could send them to a camp just down the road from the club so that I could drop them off on my way to work. Then, depending on our schedules, Kim or I would alternate leaving work earlier and taking them home. As the kids got older, we were fortunate enough that our positions allowed us to provide them with jobs. This helped them all learn to be responsible, hardworking, and independent, and they learned to manage their own money at a young age. But, ironically, the most important benefit for us was seeing our kids at work and spending more time together.
Courtney, our youngest and only daughter, gravitated towards the club business more than our boys did, especially when it came to activities for the kids. By the time she was twelve years old, she was babysitting for the membersâ kids during our âParentsâ Night Out.â Eventually, she became my camp director. Courtney was always interested in working with children, so we werenât surprised when she achieved her dream of becoming an elementary school teacher. From the age of fifteen, she maintained a part-time server job at the club, working two jobs to make extra money to pay off her student loans.
***
Looking around the table as we finished enjoying our brunch, a feeling of gratitude came over me. We were all together for a well-deserved holiday. Kim and I have always been proud that we were able to raise such responsible and hardworking kids.
My family always starts to coordinate the annual Aperance Christmas gathering a few months in advance. It rotates to different homes yearly, often landing on a date after the holiday. This was our year. Kim was also strategic with how and when she would remind me of this.
âDonât forget, itâs our turn to do the Aperance party...â Kim said cautiously, waiting for my reaction.
âAre you sure? It seems like itâs here every year!â I replied, as my neck tightened. The truth is, I knew it was our year, and I had already begun preparing myself for it. I missed many family gatherings for decades, primarily because our work schedules required Kim and me to work weekends in the summer months. We would miss several picnics and backyard parties, but I always made it to the Christmas one.
These family gatherings made me uneasy. Just like the feeling I got that one time driving the Pacific Coast Highway from Napa to San Francisco, when I had to turn around and take the alternate route, or the way my stomach sinks any time I am higher than three feet off the ground. Donât get me wrong; I loved my family and liked seeing them. However, being with them often brought back memories. They were all lovely people who I adored. Unfortunately, they just happened to be reminders of the life I spent years trying to avoid.
"A Life Half Told" is poignant and heart-rending. It is intriguing and fields a depth of emotions from the author with nods to his siblings. Not all stories are his to tell, so he mentions them more from the periphery or his point of view; however, if the walls of homes lived in could speak, or this author's siblings would dare to share, perhaps more would find their healing there. White-washing truths away, leaving the past behind, serves a purpose at times; some pains are too deep to ever bring to the surface again. However, for those who made it from the pit of despair to a home of their choosing, successful in its level of living opposite of what they had experienced before, it's their stories, like William's, that help bring others safely to an opposite shore. Thank you, William, for opening the door.
This book shows what sheer determination and will can do. When you know you are responsible for making a change, it all resides within you. Growing up in a home with neglect and abuse, with a man and a woman battling their demons that you were able to see firsthand as a child, you may have thought they were crazy, but as you aged, you learned they, too, had it rough. Not enough for you to whitewash anything away, not enough to say it was okay, not enough for you to say they did the best they could with what they had at the time, but enough for you to get up in the morning every day and accept what can no longer be changed, to dust off your sandals and walk away.
There are stories from William Aperance's life that will haunt you, as they certainly have haunted him. For instance, he did his best to raise funds for his future, only to watch it destroyed within minutes with a callous mother looking on and making excuses. This book will make you hurt alongside him. Such are the words of a good and authentic writer.
While you might feel sorry for William and his siblings early on, and this will linger with one brother's life, in particular, coming to a close (as some would say), before his time, by the end of this memoir, you will realize that what you have been reading all along was part of a love story. Not a love in a romanticized sense but the love of one's home and property shining through its care, the love of a grandmother and an uncle and an aunt with a steady presence, the love between siblings up against a gauntlet of unknowns; the love found when marriage and its vows are upheld and lived out in blessed ways. However, the greatest love story that made me cry in this book's pages is the love between William and Duke, an older brother discovered, and with him, the revelation of the other half of William's life. The missing pieces come together to create the whole.
While this book was a roller-coaster of emotions, and I did cry several times, it all points toward a classic and good memoir. My only critique, and why it did not receive five stars, is the occasional cursing that is always superfluous and parts of this book that repeat or carry over between chapters. Outside of the above, it was a book that you walk away from thanking God for Duke and his Edna, for unconditional love between brothers and additional siblings at large, that makes the family whole no matter how unconventional. For curses lifted from those who decide to bear those burdens no longer but find the strength and the courage to offload them and become better despite them. To not repeat the failings, only the triumphs, and to find, uplift, and carry banners of love beside them.