I’ve never known my father. Never met him. Didn’t even know his name for most of my early life because my mother wouldn’t tell me anything about him — and wouldn’t elaborate as to why she wouldn’t tell me.
Finally, I got a first and last name when I was 13 years old, from a maternal aunt. She said he was in the Air Force, had a family and lived in my hometown. But that’s all I ever had to go on. I kept from my mother that her sister had spilled the beans because my mother already hated this aunt.
I’ve never really had a huge need to know who he is. Is that weird? Not sure why that was true. I think it’s partially because my mother, my birth mother, had such terrible taste in men, that I’ve always been convinced in my mind that he was likely not the kind of person who’d be a positive force in my life.
Anyway, now I signed up for a DNA testing service specifically to try to find him and some possible relatives. Not sure why, this late in life, I decided to try and track him down.
I think it’s partially because the thing I’ve thought all my life had no effect whatsoever on me — not having a father figure in my life — has definitely affected me in very negative ways that I still don’t completely understand.
Perhaps I’ll find an elderly guy who is well-adjusted and open to having another son in the twilight of his existence.
I’ll be writing here about how it goes with the DNA test and search. Assuming something comes of the test.
The ways you think these things might work out, during times when you fantasize about the worst and best ways it can play out, are often so far from reality for people whose experiences I’ve read about.
