I stumbled across your obituary by accident on a Tuesday afternoon in November 2017.
I was chatting with a friend about adoption, and I meant to find a picture of my half sister, Rachel, to show that our skin tone and hair color was like yours. Apparently those genes run strong: the deep brown hair and skin with yellow undertones. Your obituary came up in the search results.
You were only 60, and were diagnosed with a glioblastoma a mere 5 months before you died from it on November 22, 2016. A year ago. I’ve known your name and where you were but had not yet made contact. Your two other daughters, Rachel and Stephanie, were the key reason why: do they even know about me? Would they want to? But the question that was always burning in my heart was if I often crossed your mind. How could I not have, with your two younger daughters a constant reminder of the one that came before?
This week I have grieved deeply for your loss. Not for the man I never knew, but for the loss of the opportunity to get to know you. I could have contacted you at any time in the last few years, but the truth is, what I wanted more than anything was for YOU to find ME, because I was afraid that I would reach out and you wouldn’t want to know me. Your obituary says you loved golf, had many friends and would talk about your daughters to whoever would listen. It’s amazing how much that sounds like my Dad’s obituary. The man who raised me will always be my Dad, but there is no doubt that you are a part of me, too, and it’s incredible how similar you sound. If so, I think I would have really liked you.
My birth mom, Jill, found me 10 years ago. She has said you were kind and treated her well, but that your lives were on different paths. I’ve enough now to understand what that means. She also said that when she saw one of my baby pictures that she was astonished how much I looked like you.
I’ll never get to tell you that I turned out okay, or that I have never been angry or resentful that you gave me up, or that I’m happy you had what sounds like a wonderful life, or find out what aspects of my personality were yours, too. But I’m pretty sure that if you knew me you’d be as proud of me as you are of Rachel and Stephanie. ❤
My questions will never be answered, but I will still carry a piece of you with me.
4 thoughts on “A Letter to my Birth Father (Who I Never Met)”
Oh my sweet, what a lovely, heartfelt letter. I’m so sad for you. I’m sure that your birth dad would have been very proud of you, how could he not?
Much love, Debs
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Andrea, I have had the great pleasure of watching you grow over the past eight years. During that time I got the privilege of meeting your “dad”. He was a warm individual who is figure sleep proud of his daughter – YOU. I have no doubt that had your birth father gotten to know you that he would have been as proud. Take this from a friend and a fellow father. Any man who has a daughter like you would swell with pride. Thank you for the privilege of getting to know you. I look forward to see all the great strides that you will continue to make.
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Siri’s autocorrect did it again
Thank you for sharing, Andrea. There is a lot of emotion here, what a wonderful way to help process it. 🙂