It Finally Happened

Out of the blue, my biological father emailed me last week. I didn’t even realize it was from him until after I read it.

Hi Karen,

I was thinking about you the other night while at a seminar and the speaker said “Let’s call her Karen.”.
I took this as a message to give you a call, but do not know your phone number or address to find you, so I figured this would be a good means of re-opening communication, if you wish.

Cheers, (his name)


I read it twice, and racked my brain trying to figure out who the hell it was from. Then I realized. I flipped my phone around to show Daren and said, “my father thinks he can make nice after nine years.”

What I could have said was, “my sperm donor thinks he can come waltzing back into my happy, busy  life, after calling me a bitch nine years ago, after a lifetime of disappointment and disappearing, after I spent parts of my childhood waiting on a front porch waiting for him to show up, and after many tears of sheer hurt when he didn’t.”

No. No. A thousand times no.

I called my grandfather immediately after my husband left with the kids (they were heading out anyway).

I felt a smidgen of guilt for silently saying no to my now-62 year-old father. Would he die alone and lonely?

My grandfather told me he thought I was making the right choice to ignore the email, and that it was normal to feel bugged by it for a while. My Papa said all the right things, as he always does.

I feel bugged by it, a little.

Most of me knows I would only get hurt again. He does not deserve me, us. He does not deserve one single hair on my head, not one thought from beneath that hair, not one hug from these arms that have carried a family and burdens and joys that he will never, ever know.

I wish him well, but I do not want to open my heart again to this.

As for that little piece of me that is bugged by this? That’s called having a heart that still carries love for the thought of having a father. I am in love with the idea of having a father – a real father – like the one Daren is to my boys.

The man who wrote to me last week? He isn’t it.