Finding my biological dad.

Birth father’s email brings mixed feelings

Ireceived an email a couple of months back that I have yet to respond to. It’s from my birth father — a man I’ve never met. He was responding to a genealogy inquiry I’d posted on one of those websites that helps adopted kids find their parents and vice versa. His email came just as I was thinking about hiring a private investigator, since four years of searching for either parent had turned up next to nothing.

So I guess I should be satisfied — happy even — but I am terrified of that email.

I have no idea what to say to this man, whom I know so little about and yet with whom I share an undeniable connection.

I have since been making excuses to not respond: “He’s in Alberta, and I’m in B. C. That’s quite the trip, and I’m too busy, so I’ll respond when I have time to meet him. I have school and work and a dog to look after — maybe later, when things settle down.”

But honestly, a small part of me hoped I’d never find my birth parents.

If we never meet, I won’t have to ask them the tough questions: Why did you give me up? Why did you not stay in contact with my adopted parents? Do you regret it?

I have tried repeatedly to push his email to the back of my mind, but my latest attempt failed dramatically when I was asked to write an article exploring “who is a father” for Father’s Day.

Suddenly, I was being forced to answer that question myself. Is my birth father someone I’d be comfortable calling “Dad”?

He and my birth mother severed our connection almost 23 years ago when I was adopted at birth by a married couple.

Growing up, I was always badgered with questions about what it’s like to be adopted.

I never knew how to answer those questions, since I never really understood what was so special about my situation. I had two parents who loved me, fed me, bathed me and bought me school supplies.

My dad scolded me when I misbehaved, like when I decided it was a good idea to rollerblade on the roof of his car. He also supported me when I needed it, like when I slept on his couch after a really bad breakup. It never mattered if we were biologically connected.

Now my dad lives on Quadra Island and I’m in Vancouver. We talk on the phone and make references to the Simpsons and John Cleese like we always have, and when he visits in August we’ll tell jokes that are likely funny to no one but ourselves. I will brag to him about my accomplishments, and he will blow them out of proportion accordingly.

From my perspective, I am just like everyone else who grew up knowing their biological dad. In fact, I’m probably luckier than some. My dad and I have had our ups and downs, sure, but I couldn’t imagine my life without him.

If I get married, he will walk me down the aisle. If I have kids, they will call him granddad.

I plan to meet my birth father one day, after I work up the nerve to respond to his email. A part of me does think I share some sort of connection with this man, and it’s one I want to explore.

Maybe he will be at my wedding, and maybe he will be in my kids’ life. Will I ever call him “Dad,” though? I doubt it.

That title belongs to the man who raised me lovingly like I was his own, and never cared that I didn’t share his genes. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You’re the best.