In the fall of 2016, I met my biological father for the first time. I’d known since I was a child that my mom’s husband, the guy I called “Dad,” was not my actual father but had adopted me when I was two, just after he and my mom married. The fact didn’t faze me a bit. I loved my dad and had no interest in finding the guy with whom my mom had a short romantic fling while living in Charleston, South Carolina, in the late 1960s. My dad and I had a wonderful relationship, and we never once spoke about me not being his biological son. My mom and I didn’t speak about it either. She sat me down and told me the situation when I was around nine or ten and after that one conversation the subject was taboo, which was perfectly fine with me.
But after my dad passed away in 2005, I started to become curious about my ancestry. I pestered my mom until she said she’d only give me the name of my biological father if I would promise not to look for him or contact him. I crossed my fingers and agreed. I kept the promise for over ten years, until my curiosity finally got the best of me.
When I met him, my biological father was living in a small camper on a few acres of land in Cottageville, South Carolina. He was in his early seventies and his health was a mess. He had heart disease, diabetes, and lung cancer that was in remission. I met him at his ex-wife’s house, which sat a mile away from his camper and where he still ate most of his meals. She was there, along with their daughter, my half-sister I never knew I had. I stayed for a couple of hours during which time I came to understand my biological father to be a stubborn, short-tempered, narcissistic jerk. His ex-wife and my half-sister were as sweet and kind as anyone I’d ever met, and I wondered how they put up with the guy.
Over the next few years, I saw my biological father a handful of times and for never longer than an hour at a stretch. He liked to tell me about his time in Vietnam as a door gunner and his years working as a bailiff for the town of Cottageville. All of his stories had a similar theme, him being the hero and righting wrongs. He carried a huge chip on his shoulder, and I never figured out how it had gotten there. He passed away a few months ago, and I drove to Cottageville for the funeral.
My half-sister and her girlfriend delivered the casket to the cemetery by horse and carriage, and a few people stood and spoke about the deceased’s kindness and generosity while also mentioning his hard-headed ways. I stood off in the background wondering if, in time, I would’ve discovered his kindness and generosity. Were those attributes really part of his DNA? I hope so.
