Who Is My Father?

Below is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir.

I had been yearning for but avoiding this moment for nearly 30 years, so it was surreal that it was finally happening. It was a warm spring morning in Austin, Texas. Small white flowers bloomed on ornamental pear trees. Purple blossoms delicately opened up on redbuds, my favorite trees in spring. The ground was rich with new life. I didn’t have my kids that day, which was a good thing. I needed space to go slowly. I needed silence to process. I needed to be there for myself that day. 

The evening before, I prepared for the conversation. I brainstormed simple questions to ask as if I were on a first date. Are you retired? Do you like to travel? Do you have pets? I felt like I was ready for the conversation. Despite still being nervous, I had surrendered to any outcome. My newfound ability to emotionally trust myself was the steady hand at the wheel.

I was alone in my home, a 1960s ranch gutted and remodeled twelve years ago. The walls were mainly white, with colorful abstract art by local and international artists placed throughout. Double size patio doors stretched the entire length of one side of the living room, opening up a beautiful view out into the backyard. Natural light bathed the living area with vaulted ceilings, creating openness and spaciousness. Outside, thin slabs of rock were arranged in a mosaic pattern on the ground, creating a pleasantly earthy feeling. In the middle stood a mature crepe myrtle tree. Rooted. Strong. Healthy. Whole.

 I sat at the expansive grey quartz kitchen counter, one of my favorite places to be relaxed, yet attentive. Three empty white leather bar stools were positioned next to me. My full-grown German shepherd, Mazzy, was my only company that day. I was thankful for her presence. I took a few deep breaths to ground myself. I dialed the number, and he picked up. 

“Hi, this is Emily.” 

“Hello,” he said with an audible smile on his face and giddiness in his tone.

“I don’t want to talk about anything serious since this is our first conversation,” I said protectively. 

“I want you, and I always wanted you,” he confidently said. “She was living with me, and she broke it off.” His confident declaration jolted me into the realization that there were many secrets yet to be told.

My heart sank, but I couldn’t go there just yet. This was a longer conversation that I needed to have face to face. 

“Thanks, Daryl,” I said. But why weren’t you there for me when I was growing up? I thought to myself. 

He told me about himself. He lived with a woman named Gloria for the last 22 years. They drove to a lot of car shows. They didn’t drink or smoke. He fully restored a ‘66 Chevelle and a motorcycle. He rode all over the US on his motorcycle when he was younger. He spoke with gentleness and clarity. He seemed loving and kind…and genuinely interested in me.  I told him about myself—that I went to college, live in Texas, and have two kids. 

“You turned out really great,” he said. “It’s a big load off me—I’d love to meet you.” 

I thanked him for his reassuring words, but I was still guarded. I had never met this man, this man who is my biological father. There had to be a reason why my mother kept us apart. He said they had lived together, which was news to me.

We continued talking for about 45 minutes, then said our goodbyes. After our conversation, I felt relieved. There were no red flags; he seemed balanced, thoughtful, and kind. And definitely interested and excited about me. In turn, I felt more of a sense of curiosity and safety. The first thing he told me was exactly what my body wanted to hear: you were wanted. I wanted to believe him, to trust him. This statement, this belief, I am wanted is the opposite of what I believed to be true for most of my adult life. I had come to imagine that I wasn’t wanted, that I wasn’t worthy of my true father’s love. And that’s why he left. Until recently, subconscious beliefs of worthlessness permeated my being. I had trapped myself in the shame of my past, building walls powered by secrecy and judgment.