So I guess a big part of growing up is finding out where you came from. Whether you were adopted or not, there is always some mystery in your family. Like they say, “everybody has a few skeletons in the closet”. But I honestly didn't know that my family had a lot more than a few. Heck, they had thousands! I've never met my father. My mom says it’s better that way. So does my grandfather.
I see pictures of him. Of when I was a little baby, and he held me with that loving smile… It filled me with such warmth. It was like everyday part of me was missing something… yet whenever I saw his face, that last single puzzle piece would be found and close the gap in my heart.
My father – you could tell he loved me and that he had a big heart just from the pictures. I don’t know where he is or if he’s even alive. My mother never told me, probably so that I don’t run away to search for him.
The more I ask my mother about myself, the more I concern her because she doesn't know the answers. And the more concern that passes through her eyes, the more I feel like she hardly even knew my dad herself. It seems to be becoming more and more clear that I am different and the only person that could answer all my questions is him: my father – my dad, but Dad seems far too personal until I actually meet him.
I need to know the truth of what happened to my father. About where he is, why he left, or if he’s even still among the living. But the deeper I get, the more I realize that my family is way past abnormal. And that I myself have secrets I didn't even know about.