My father died when I was 38. When I was 40 I found out, by accident, that the woman who raised him, who I was always told was his "aunt" (and who I was named after) was really just the person who ran a residential home for kids that he had been sent to as a child, possibly by the courts but not sure. She took a liking to him and when the home closed, she took him with her to live as her "son". He was never adopted and when he was in his 30's, right before he married my mother, he had his name changed legally. I was dumbstruck when I found this out! No one had ever told my sister and me anything about this. It's like finding out you are adopted. Our last name, which I had researched and found that the family had been one of the original founders of the county I live in as well as early developers of Manhattan - all that was nothing to us now. His actual family were immigrants who arrived from Europe in the early 1900's and lived in NYC and were still all there when he was sent to the home. He wasn't an orphan, as we thought. At the point I found out, my mother had started to descend into dementia and couldn't understand why I was so upset. Since they all knew I was interested in our genealogy, I was furious that no one said anything! And then it turned out that all my mother's family knew too! Why on earth do people keep stuff like this secret! I totally can understand how you feel, Cyn!