Two weeks ago, my birth father died. His death should have come as no surprise; he was 86 and in poor health. I found his obituary online through a random search. If I hadn’t seen it, I doubt I would have ever known he died. His family doesn’t know of my existence. The news swallowed me whole with grief and profound sadness. Feeling everything. Feeling nothing. He was number four of the four parents I’ve lost. He was the last one who could have unlocked the truth of my origin, but, as all who died before, took it to the grave. 

Two years ago, when I discovered the identity of my birth father, I immediately searched for him online. He was a high-ranking politician and powerful attorney. If still alive, he would be 84 years old. I called the law firm associated with his name. There wouldn’t be much harm in calling … or so I thought.

I asked the receptionist, “Do you happen to know when he died?”

She replied, “Gee. I hope he’s not dead. I just saw him the other day.”

Startled and shocked, I hung up. He was alive and well. I sat with this information for months. Should I contact him? What would happen if I did? 

My first attempt was with a certified letter. I agonized over every word I wrote, and every picture I enclosed. What if I say the wrong thing? What if he doesn’t see his reflection in me? What if he thinks this is a scam? I was impatient for the loving response he would send. Every day, I ran to the mailbox like a child running after the ice cream truck. I waited for the letter. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. My inner child screamed loudly, “I told you so. He wants nothing to do with you. You are not worthy of acknowledgment or love.”

A well-meaning friend assured me that my birth father just needed time to process and adjust. Time to formulate the perfect heartfelt response. I needed to be gentle with him as it may be a shocking surprise. A polite reminder that his life and his feelings were more important than mine.

A year went by, and COVID hit. I felt rattled and unhinged. Life is short. I was old, and my birth father older—85. The world felt like it was coming to an end. It was now or never. 

My second (and last) attempt was with a phone call. I heard his voice for the first time, albeit an answering machine. Does my voice sound like his? With a quivering, childlike voice, I blurted out, “Hi. I’m following up on a letter I sent over a year ago. You can reach me at this number. I would love to hear from you. This is your daughter.” I hung up and wept.

Once again, I waited. After several weeks, an attorney sent me an email which stated he was trying to reach me, that he represented my father, and I may call him at his office. I reeled with total disbelief that not only did my father refuse direct contact, but he decided to hide behind the cloak of the law. What was he afraid of? What did he have to hide? 

The next morning, I turned off all distractions, took a deep breath, and called the attorney. His voice was gentle, but his words were fierce and unwavering. The dialogue had been carefully scripted, complete with the phrase, “He can neither confirm nor deny” he is my father. “He wasn’t aware of your existence. It’s best that he continues to not know you in any capacity. He needs to keep his illustrious legacy intact. Please refrain from any further contact.” The lawyer adds with a secretive whisper, “You do realize he worked for the Department of Justice?”

They chose to be brutal, not kind. How can this be happening? Why is he punishing me?

I was reduced to a little girl gently tugging on her daddy’s sleeves longing for love and affection. Feeling the acute pain of being rejected and that I wasn’t worthy of acknowledgment, I muttered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him. I just wanted to talk to him. I don’t want to rock the boat. I will respect his wishes.“ 

According to my phone, the call lasted 25 minutes and 10 seconds. I have no recollection of what was said other than what I outlined above. It was as if I had been in a terrible car crash, only to wake up in a hospital bruised and broken with no memory of what happened. 

I buckled under the weight of legal intimidation; I couldn’t risk contacting him again. Would he come after me? Would he sue me for my accusation? I was trapped in fear. He had attacked my character, worth, and existence. Why was his integrity more important than my feelings? Was I the one being unkind and thoughtless? 

Several colleagues said things like, “You’re better off without him.” “He doesn’t know what he is missing.” “Who needs him, anyway?” I swallowed hard. 

Now that he is dead, I ask myself what the next chapter will hold. Immediately, I know the answer.

Freedom.

I am free from his intimidation, free from his rejection. I am released from the terror that he would come after me. I no longer need to dwell on how to change his mind, change the outcome, change my story. With him died with the knowledge of my origin, and there is nothing more I can do.

 Surprisingly, I feel relief. I’m nobody else’s shameful, dirty secret.