When Half Of You Is A Mystery
by Vanessa Kass
I was raised by an incredible man. He taught me how to swim and ride a bike. He instilled in me my love for reading and good music. He loves me. Which was a choice he made. Because he is not my biological father. Though he is the only father I have ever known.
My mother divorced my biological father when I was very young. I have two memories of him. I think. They are too grainy and I was too young to consider them accurate.
My dad adopted me when he married my mother. He is on my birth certificate. I took his name. I kept it when I got married. I am his eldest child. And, maybe, sometimes, I am nothing.
Family is a funny thing.
Not just the interactions and ties of generations and blood. But the way we define them and treat them. How we give some people leeway. Others the opposite. How there are roles assigned and played without thought or consent. And everyone has two families, right? The family you get and the family you choose. My dad chose me. I was lucky. When I got married, I wrote him a note, saying when you have a child, the love you have is a given. But his love for me? That was a gift and I will always be thankful.
I never saw or felt it as a loss, that lack of relationship with my biological father. Maybe it was because I was told he didn’t want me. Maybe because, to my knowledge, he never reached out. Most likely because I had a dad who fulfilled all the necessary requirements and more.
And yet.
I started to get curious about my biological father in high school. Not necessarily wanting to rekindle a relationship, but just understandable curiosity. I was a product of his second marriage. I had, at the least, some older half-siblings. But there was no internet back then and when I was told that looking for him hurt my dad’s feelings, I stopped. I instead filled out a new baby book with my dad. His family tree. My birth details. The myriad of milestones he had witnessed as I grew. All of which was right and good. But the wondering was still there.
When I got pregnant with my first child, the nurse asked me about my genetic history. I told her I was adopted and didn’t have it. Which was true. But I made no moves to track it down either. I don’t have an answer as to why. Why I answered that way. Why I let it drop. Perhaps because they just added genetic testing to the bloodwork and the issue became a non-issue.
Shortly after my second son was born, the curiosity reared its head again. And my dad showed me the type of man he is. He sat on my couch and searched with me. Typing in my father’s name and combinations of details that he knew into bing, google, ancestry.com, etc. We were not picky.
My father, sitting next to me, helped me find my biological father. No ego, no fear, no worry. Just love and an acknowledgement that this was important to me. His daughter. And so it was important to him.
I didn’t necessarily want to rekindle a relationship. I didn’t have any need for his genetic information. I THINK, having just learned some powerful truths of my childhood, I wanted him to know that I was grown and that I was ok. That if he tried to reach out, or didn’t, I understood. That I was healthy and successful and a mother to two children. I didn’t want to open up any wounds if there were any. I wanted to ease them if there were.
That chance would not come.
My dad and I discovered his obituary together. He had died three months before I typed his name into the search bar. I was sad. Surprisingly so for a person I knew less well than my mailman but was, in some ways, more connected to me than almost any other person in my life. I missed out. Not on having a father because I have an exceptional one. But on the opportunity to know things. Parts of my family history. Where my curls come from. Or my height. My laugh. People would tell me that I look like my dad and he and I would always share a quick glance and smile. I would smile at the person and say thank you. But I didn’t know. Not really. And now I never would.
“i cried for someone who was never part of my life but was also exactly half of my life. ”
I cried. I cried for a stranger. I cried for someone who was never part of my life but was also exactly half of my life. Why? Was it the loss of opportunity? The ability to meet him or my half-siblings? To show him pictures of me or my children? To learn anything about this part of me tied to generations of strangers? Was it that I was just a little too late? If it had happened years and not months ago, would the sting be lessened? If you’re looking for answers, I am sorry to disappoint. I never found any. Just more questions.
If who made me is not as important as who made me who I am, why did it hurt so much to read the obituary? I know my family. I know where they are from. I know that a Brooklyn accent always makes me feel like I am home. I know that galaktoboureko will always get me to a table for dessert.
I stayed true to my intent.
I had wanted him to know that I was doing well. I was happy and healthy. I sent a letter to a half-sibling. A brother. Not because I thought he would be particularly more receptive to this letter than a sister. Let’s face it, guys do not generally shine in these situations. It was more logistics. Women often change their name when they get married. The brother was the easiest to track down.
The letter was short and to the point. I am sorry for your loss. Your loss. Not mine. In case you ever wondered, I am good. Truly. In case you want to connect, here is my email.
I never heard back.
Maybe it was because it was too close to the passing. Maybe because I sent it to a dude. Maybe it was because they were told things about my feelings and desires that weren’t true. Maybe it was because he didn’t get the letter. How the hell should I know? I never sent another one.
Thousands of people live life with their genetic parent(s) a mystery. I am not special. But the potential that existed because I knew his information made connection a possibility. It wasn’t a closed adoption. I wasn’t orphaned. I was a product of divorce.
BUT, sitting next to my dad while I cried reminded me of who I am. Who I was raised to be. Maybe I would have been the same woman no matter what. That is a nature versus nurture conversation I am not going to delve into here. What I do know is that I am the only one like me. I have multiple half siblings on each side. But I was the only one from this union. A single one. Which can sometimes make me feel untethered. That is a fleeting feeling.
Because if there is anything I have learned, it is not blood that binds. It is love. Which I have received in abundance. And which I think my biological father’s wife will be happy to learn when I send her this article, thanks to LinkedIn Premium.
Vanessa Kass is a writer, teacher and mindset mentor. She lives in Connecticut with her three children, husband, and menagerie of animals. You can find more of her articles here.
