Day: June 5, 2026

At 4:15 P.M. Central, Sunday, June 5, 2022, my father called me for the first time. He has only called me two other times in the four years that I’ve known him. This first conversation was in response to a letter I had written to introduce myself. I found his mailing address on the property tax assessor’s website after my first attempt was returned for “no mail receptacle.” Adoptee hack I learned from fellow searchers.

I tried calling him before writing; his wife answered and said, “You have the wrong number.” I apologized and quickly hung up, deflated. My Lulu felt differently, saying, “That lady sounds nice, Mom. I hope you talk to her again one day.” Lulu was right—“that lady” is why I know what I know. I love my bonus mom. Once contact existed, she helped maintain it in a fragile, human way—something between protection and connection rather than denial.

I didn’t stop looking for answers. I’d become Sherlock Holmes. Sneaking around felt icky. I was in search of the gold at the end of the rainbow, aka family health history. The pain never left me. I hoped for answers.

Once I said “hello,” I ran into my room alone. How I wish I had brought B and Lulu. I was in shock too, but I had the presence of mind to scribble a few notes. We ended the call with promises to “keep in touch,” in a flurry of family photos over text.

I found him on my birthday, 12/21/21. Angel numbers. I didn’t reach out immediately. I researched instead, listening to well-intended people who made suggestions and strong recommendations that often contradicted each other.

For anyone who might follow in my footsteps, I say: do NOT listen to anyone but your own tender heart. If anyone has a problem with how you handle things, then fuck ’em. This journey is yours. And yes, that means some people will get hurt—really badly—including yourself. But that’s life. Grow a pair. Yet I couldn’t take my own advice. In fact, I still contort like a pretzel and make myself small, practically disappearing where he is concerned.

The phone call was not enough time to get to know my father. Sharing my soul in letters and sending old photos back and forth didn’t get us there either. A handful of visits and some intermittent texting weren’t enough. Even four years of interaction falls short. Knowing him, really knowing who he is as a person, takes time—precious time you don’t necessarily have when you live 2,000 miles apart, or when you’re in your sixties with chronic health issues and your father is in his eighties. Still, I have this image of him, so much like me—or so I’m told. Always joking around, yet quiet and introspective. It feels more like wishful thinking.

As always, more to come.