Many adopted people dream of being reunited with a member of their birth family. But few have as unexpected a story as Anaïs Bordier and Samantha Futerman, 27-year-old identical twins born in South Korea but separated as infants and raised by families an ocean apart.

They connected in late 2012 when Bordier, a Frenchwoman then studying fashion design in London, happened across a YouTube video of her doppelgänger, an aspiring U.S. actress. After tracking down her look-alike's name, Bordier contacted Futerman, and the drama began to unfold.

It all led to a detailed account of the twins' subsequent communications via text, e-mail, Skype and in-person visits in England, France, New Jersey and Seoul, the litany of which frequently drags on (perhaps they should have replaced their ghostwriter with a more vigilant editor).

Futerman, who has two brothers, and Bordier, raised as an only child, were thrilled to find each other, and were convinced that they were indeed sisters even before the DNA evidence confirmed it. Each was overjoyed to find someone with "the same skin, the same hair length and color, the same nose, and the same smile."

What's missing in this reunion account, at least from the perspective of most adoptees, adoptive parents and birthparents, is any real reflection on their back story. How did these sisters end up in two different families and cultures? Why were they given up for adoption at all? Who are their birth parents and what obstacles did they face? Why were the twins separated, and how did they end up with different adoption agencies? And especially — given all we know about corruption in the world of international adoption — was anyone bribed, bullied or deceived into relinquishing these beautiful twins?

Although Futerman and Bordier show some interest in how they came to be separated, they show far less interest in the woman who gave birth to them. This seems less than credible, under the circumstances.

Anaïs Bordier and Samantha Futerman.

But perhaps they were too distracted by the documentary they immediately launched into making. They had no sooner experienced their emotions than they were re-creating them for the camera.

The book, and perhaps these young women's own psyches, might have benefited from less time spent flying across the globe and more time spent contemplating what flung them there.

Lynette Lamb is a Minneapolis writer and editor. She works at Macalester College in St. Paul.