My biological father is the man who created me. I know who he is. His name is Harry.
Two very different men with two very different roles. I terribly wish I could speak with both of them, but to have very different conversations.
I'd simply hold my daddy's sweet hand, put my head on his strong shoulder, close my eyes, and just breath. Words would not be necessary.
I'd ask my father one critical question: Did you know about me?
A few years ago, I learned via DNA that my mother had an affair with a man she worked for in the late 1950s. I knew this man. And his wife. And their son. They were close friends of my parents. When they retired to a sunny tropical place, we visited numerous times. I remember these folks very fondly.
I never would have pegged this man to be my father. Once DNA convinced me Carl was not my bio father, I started searching for him. I had a mental list of potential candidates. This man was not on my list. So when I saw his name, it hit me like a ton of bricks.
Memories of time spent with both couples only add to my long list of questions. Someone recently asked me "does it really matter"? Well, yes. And no.