My sister Stephanie and I traveled to Arkansas to explore my birth father Steve’s old stomping grounds and meet family.
Beautiful, green, quiet, peaceful and rural – those words came to mind as I took in the scenery on the drive from the Clinton National Airport to Logan County, a small county in western Arkansas. I looked out the windows and saw acres of flat farmland, grazing cows, bales of hay, stands of tall trees and hilly curving ribbons of two-lane roads. That landscape repeated itself many times. Car horns, alarms and the rumble of vehicles don’t seem to exist in this serene place. Continue reading “Adoptee Learns About Birth Father, Meets Cousins”
My adoption file provided answers to some of the questions I had about my adoption.(Image by Tawny van Breda from Pixabay)
Remember how thrilled I was to learn that my adoption file existed in Cook County, Illinois? From the contents of that circa 1960s paper file came a report with new details about my hidden adoption.
The report sat in my inbox. Feeling excited, not knowing what I would learn, I clicked open a PDF from the Cook County, Illinois Department of Adoption and Family Supportive Services.
For $100, Cook County provided a two-page, double-spaced summary prepared by the county’s adoption specialist who pulled the information from my adoption file.
The name at the top of the page jumped out at me. Baby Girl W. Cook County identified me as Baby Girl W. after I was born but before I was adopted. (The report identified me by the complete last name of my birth mother’s husband but I’m using just the first letter of the name here.)
It’s hard to find words for how I felt seeing that name, my temporary name, on an official document. All my life, I’ve been known as Lynne Miller, Miller being my adoptive father’s name. It was surreal to see myself referred to by this other name. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the name – it appears on my original birth certificate – but it still jolted me .
The report consisted of three parts. Part A focused on my birth mother, Part B focused on my birth father and Part C was about me. The information came from my birth mother, Lillian, who was interviewed by a social worker four days after my birth.
The interviewer described Lillian as being 5 foot 3 inches tall, weighing 110 pounds, having a small physical build, with brown eyes, brown hair and an olive complexion. While I’ve seen plenty of old photos of Lillian, I’d never seen a written description of her appearance. I didn’t know she had an olive complexion.
Adoption File Reveals Details That Led to Adoption
In explaining why she chose to place me for adoption, Lillian said I was conceived while she was separated from her husband. After a four-month separation, Lillian and her husband reconciled and Lillian discovered she was pregnant. They knew the unborn baby wasn’t his. Lillian, mother of four children who ranged in age from 3 to 7, said she thought adoption would be best for Baby Girl W’s welfare. She was six months pregnant when she decided to give me up for adoption.
Lillian’s attorney, who made the placement arrangements, provided Lillian information about Claire and Bob, my adoptive parents and Lillian was satisfied with the information.
My birth mother stated her parents, George and Susan, were deceased but didn’t offer any details on when or how they had died. George had worked as a factory worker and Susan had been a nurse, Lillian said.
Asked by the social worker about her health, Lillian said she was in good health then, but 10 years earlier she had suffered a nervous breakdown that caused her to be hospitalized for three weeks.
Three weeks in a hospital! That stunned me. Lillian would have been 17. I hate to think how she was treated for a mental breakdown. This would have been 1953 in southern Indiana. I pictured men in white coats scrutinizing Lillian, nurses jabbing her with needles, wheeling her from one room to another, my birth mother crying or screaming or maybe unconscious, knocked out by powerful drugs.
Did the breakdown mark the onset of bipolar disorder, which Lillian had struggled with as an adult?
Adoption File Describes Birth Father
Lillian had known who my biological father was. What a relief! My sister had led me to believe Lillian was a carouser who wouldn’t have known who the father was and that troubled me. I didn’t want my birth mother to be that type of woman.
My birth mother’s description of my biological father Steve matched my understanding of him. Lillian said my father was a 35-year-old married auto mechanic. He stood 5 foot 9 inches tall, weighed around 160 pounds and had blue eyes, blond hair and a fair complexion. My biological father graduated from high school, then attended trade school where he learned how to repair cars. At some point, he served in the Navy.
What remains unclear to me is the nature of the relationship between my birth parents. Was I conceived during a one-night stand or did my biological parents have a longer, deeper thing? Lillian didn’t provide any details about the relationship to the social worker. Perhaps she would have been forthcoming if her husband and their lawyer hadn’t been in the room.
My Biological Father Didn’t Know About Me
Lillian told the social worker my biological father didn’t know about me. My bio dad apparently went back to his other life without knowing he had fathered a baby girl, his third daughter.
Now I don’t want to leave anyone with the impression that I’ve lost sleep over not knowing how much I weighed when I was born but it’s one of those little details that people who aren’t adopted learn from their mothers. Many adoptees don’t have this information.
In the last paragraph, I found the answer.
“Medical information regarding the child (Baby Girl W) at birth shows that the child was born full term at 40 weeks with a normal delivery without complications,” the report said. “The child weighed 7 lbs., 6 oz. at birth.”
Via email, I asked the adoption specialist a few follow-up questions. She told me the hospital discharged my birth mother when I was three days old. When I was five days old, my adoptive parents arrived at the hospital, court order in hand, and the hospital released me to their care.
The adoption was not a done deal. A case worker visited Claire and Bob’s home as part of a mandatory home study process. The report didn’t provide any information about the case worker’s observation. Once the case worker completed the home study, a judge finalized the adoption six months after my birth.
A couple of things in the non-identifying report are inconsistent. Blood relatives have told me Lillian came from Irish and Scottish ancestry yet Lillian told the social worker she was of German descent. Lillian said her father had died but my records show he was alive. Perhaps he was dead to her in spirit.
If you were adopted in Cook County, email Melissa Reyes at Melissa.Reyes@cookcountyil.gov or call 312-603-0552 to request the non-identifying information in your adoption file. It’s well worth the hundred bucks.
I’d love to hear what other adoptees discovered from non-identifying information. Feel free to leave comments.
Somewhere in Cook County, Illinois, there’s an adoption file containing more truths about my hidden adoption.
To find out what’s in my file, I contacted Melissa, an adoption and family support specialist who tracks down adoption files for adoptees who were born in Cook County.
First we needed to make sure my file existed. On the phone, Melissa asked questions about my biological mother, Lillian, and other details about my adoption. She put me on hold for a couple minutes, then informed me she found a card on my adoption. In other words, my adoption file should be available.
Adoption File Exists
Woohoo! I felt thrilled and oddly comforted. A caseworker, lawyer, social worker and judge presumably crossed the “t’s,” dotted the “i’s” and followed protocol. I’m an adoptee with a proper paper trail, a legitimate bastard if there can be such a person.
I hoped the file would provide answers to some lingering questions.
Adoption files can provide answers for adoptees searching for information about their biological families. (Image by Monika Robak from Pixabay)
Other than knowing my birth mother had delivered me at a hospital in Skokie, I knew very little about the details of my birth. I wanted to find out whether Lillian knew who my biological father was or whether Steve, my biological father, knew about me. How much time did Lillian and I spend together after my birth ? How old was I when Claire and Bob, my adoptive parents, took me home to the Southwest Side of Chicago? Assuming a social worker interviewed my birth mother, I wanted to know what Lillian told her.
With regard to the adoption file, Melissa tried to manage my expectations, saying “if we find it” and “if it is at our warehouse.”
Adoption files sometimes go missing. My file could be in the wrong drawer, cabinet or closet, wherever these records are kept in Cook County’s warehouse. I pictured a vast, cheerless building with thousands of adoption stories tucked in a sea of beige or gray file cabinets. My file molders along with those of my fellow adoptees who were born in and around Chicago in the 1960s.
If Melissa finds the file, she will prepare a report for me containing non-identifying information in exchange for $100.
My Unofficial Adoption File
At home in Brooklyn, my unofficial adoption file includes my original birth certificate signed by Lillian, and the legal amended birth certificate with Claire and Bob listed as my parents. In a red box, I’ve stashed pages and pages of handwritten notes taken from interviews with family members who knew my biological parents. I’ve accumulated knowledge and photos of my biological relatives and ancestors. Last year, I even got to meet a bunch of cousins at a family reunion in southern Indiana.
But I still want more information. Had my parents told me about my adoption, I doubt I would have all this curiosity.
Melissa said she would go to the warehouse on Friday to look for my file and promised to call me that day to let me know if she found it. When the phone rang Friday afternoon, I ran downstairs to grab it from Tom. It was Melissa.
Chicago was in a deep freeze. The heat in the warehouse was out of order so Melissa wasn’t able to search for my file. She apologized. I felt disappointed. We agreed to stay in touch.
Chicago remained frozen for days. The temperature was 9 degrees below zero when I emailed Melissa the following Wednesday. Melissa had no news for me. She and her co-workers had been told not to travel outside of the office until the weather warmed up. Apologizing again for the delay, Melissa said she’d get back to me by the end of the week with any updates.
All I could do was wait for the North Pole-like conditions to blow over.
Two days later, Melissa emailed me. “Great news, I located your file at the warehouse today!” she wrote.
COMING SOON: I’ll share the new details that I discovered about my adoption.
[contextly_sidebar id=”JQm00X1vnKoMLvGeMPpWLwZKYoVACMqW”]I was a bundle of nerves as I drove to JFK to meet my sister, Stephanie, and niece, Rachel, for the first time. We made plans to spend three days together several months ago and while I felt good about these people, they nevertheless were strangers, unknown blood relatives that I found through DNA testing.
My search is over. A DNA test has confirmed the identity of my biological father.
I was beyond thrilled when I got the email from a woman I suspected was a close relative based on countless hours of detective work. She had taken a DNA test at my request.
“Tom, I found my biological father,” I told my husband, who was under the covers at 6 a.m. “Congratulations,” he murmured.
From my own adoption experience and as someone who hangs out with adoptees on Facebook, I know many of us have grievances with our adoptions.
Here’s mine. My parents, Claire and Bob, never told Melissa and me we were adopted. Claire and Bob were recovering from the death of their only child, Bobby, when they decided to adopt a baby girl – that would be me. A year later, Melissa joined our family.
Bob, Claire and their son, Bobby
Claire and Bob took these “secret” adoptions to their graves. I use the word “secret” ironically since everyone in my family except for Melissa and me knew about our adoptions. I didn’t find out until I was 38 years old. By that time, my parents were both gone so I could not ask them about the adoptions. When I asked my cousins for details, they knew very little so I was left with many unanswered questions.
I don’t like being a late discovery adoptee. Really, who would?
I’ve been thinking about what I would tell a couple planning to adopt a child. I’ve never done it but as a mother, I think I speak for many parents when I say parenthood is a job you can’t really prepare for. Doesn’t matter if you give birth or adopt. No parent knows what she’s getting into when she has a child.
Of course, adopting a child brings with it some special issues. I’ve put together a short list of suggestions for would-be adoptive parents. Call it the “do’s and don’ts” of adoption from the adoptee’s point of view.
• Be straight with your child. Tell her the truth about being adopted. That doesn’t mean you have to reveal every unpleasant detail about the circumstances behind your child’s birth especially if those details are painful. Tact is not a bad thing especially with a little one.
But you owe it to your child to be honest. Yes, adoption is complicated. It’s also one more way to create a family so why hide the truth? Besides, isn’t it better that the truth comes from you rather than having your child discover the facts on her own? Believe me, if you choose not to tell her, she will find out anyway.
• Don’t play favorites. I cringe when I hear stories from adopted adults who are scarred, having been made to feel like second-class citizens compared to their parents’ biological siblings.
Note to parents: don’t bother adopting if you don’t have a big enough heart to love the child the same way you do your natural offspring. No one ever said blending a family would be easy but I assume as an adopter, you chose to bring a non-biological child into your home. Nobody forced you to do it. So make the best of the situation, no matter how tough it is. Bend over backwards to make your adopted child feel loved and protected. Be sensitive to her feeling of being different. Whatever you do, don’t make her feel second-class by treating her differently than the other kids in the house.
• Don’t feel threatened. At some point, your adopted child will want to know about her origins. Don’t take it the wrong way when your child asks questions about her birth mother or father. Don’t be offended when she embarks on a search for facts about her biological family. Don’t be hurt when she wants to meet with her blood relatives in person. Understand that your child’s curiosity and need to know are natural.
If you are not adopted, you probably have known about your family since Day One. Your mom and dad filled you in on the story of your birth and the details about your first days of life on this planet. You’re not curious because you know your story. If anything, you take it for granted.
Put yourself in your child’s shoes. If you were adopted, wouldn’t you want to know about your first family? Be supportive of your child’s desire to learn about her kin. Oh, and if you happen to know things about your child’s other family, it’s time to come forward. Don’t be an obstacle in your child’s search for truth. She will appreciate your love and support.
• Educate yourself as much as you can. If you plan to adopt a child from overseas, go into it with your eyes open. Ask questions. Do your homework. Many children from faraway countries have been hurt. They may have health and behavioral problems that you’ve never heard of. Can you make a lifelong commitment to loving and helping a troubled child? It won’t be easy.
Last year, Reuters exposed the underground practice of “rehoming,” where unhappy parents seek new homes for the kids they regret adopting with no official regulation or oversight. Vulnerable children, many from foreign countries, have ended up in the hands of unfit even dangerous people.
Until I read the articles by Reuters, I never knew giving up was an option for adopters. The idea of adopting a child and then changing your mind when the going gets tough makes me angry. When you adopt a kid, you make a commitment to loving and raising the child. It’s not a consumer purchase.
Before you adopt, ask yourself if you have what it takes to be a good mom or dad even when things become difficult. Maybe you’re up for the challenge. Or maybe not?
Every time we turn around, we hear about the importance of family medical history. Yet for adoptees, these facts are missing or at best incomplete.
A couple of recent situations reminded me how little I know about my family medical history.
Leafing through Better Homes and Gardens on the subway, an article about heart disease caught my eye.
“When it comes to heart disease, what runs in your family matters—a lot,” the article began. “Studies show that if one of your parents had a heart attack or stroke, your own risk for these conditions can double, and having a brother or sister with the disease ups your chances of having a heart attack, too.”
I turned the page. Another article suggested talking to relatives about diseases that run in the family and then telling your doctor, who can use the information to recommend lifestyle changes or screenings. “So grab a pen and paper and start interviewing Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, and everyone in between,” the article said.
Yeah, right. Like I can pick up the phone and get the scoop on family health conditions just like that. The writer is obviously not adopted.
On another day, sitting in an office in Manhattan, my doctor and I tried to calculate my lifetime risk of developing breast cancer. Lillian, my mother, died of breast cancer at the age of 48 and that’s why I made this appointment. I have no idea how old Lillian was when she was first diagnosed with the disease so I couldn’t answer my doctor’s question about age of onset. Hell, I didn’t know about my adoption until 11 years ago and didn’t know Lillian’s name until 2012. By the time I found out about her, Lillian had been gone for nearly 30 years.
I recalled hearing from a relative that Lillian had battled cancer for quite a while. How long is quite a while? Let’s say my mother had the disease for seven years, I told my doctor. She knew I was guessing and she wasn’t pleased. My doctor quizzed me about the other members of my family who had the disease. I don’t know, I don’t know, I said. My blood relatives are strangers to me.
I knew what my doctor was thinking: you should know your family history! I am adopted, I said, feeling compelled to defend my ignorance.
Courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net/Grant Cochrane
As we wrapped up our meeting, my doctor commented on how frustrating this lack of history must be for adopted people.
Yup, adoptees from the sealed records era run into these situations all the time. We don’t have family gossip stored in our memories because we never had a chance to talk with our biological kin. We can’t answer doctors’ questions with actual knowledge. We are clueless about our family histories.
In recent months, I’ve learned a few things about the health issues that run on my mother’s side of the family. Lillian, in addition to breast cancer, struggled with alcohol and probably bipolar disorder. At least one of her brothers struggled with bipolar disorder, too. Lillian’s father, George, also had a drinking problem. My half-sister has diabetes and suffered a mild stroke some years ago.
What little I know about my mother and her relatives seems like a treasure chest of facts compared to what I have on my father and his family – absolutely nothing.
This problem is finally getting attention from the outside world. New Jersey lawmakers are considering legislation that would allow adoptees to gain access to their medical histories along with their original birth certificates. I say it’s about time.
In the absence of information, I will do what I can to keep heart attacks, strokes and other bad stuff away. Healthy genes, heart attack genes, mystery genes – whatever I inherited doesn’t have to dictate what’s going to strike me five, 10 or 20 years from now.
I try to take care of myself by making (mostly) healthy choices. Today I have a head cold. Part of me wants to take a nap, the other part of me thinks it’s time to get up, stretch my legs and have a glass of water with another shot of cold medicine. It’s snowing and 27 degrees outside but a walk might do me good and get my mind off the things over which I have no control.
I took a DNA test to find blood relatives on my father’s side. Ever since I got my DNA results a few months ago, I’ve been semi-obsessed with solving the puzzle of my past from the comfort of my home. It’s a work in progress (emphasis on “work”).
I know many of my fellow adoptees are in the same boat. Many of you are thinking about taking a DNA test, so I want you to know what I’ve learned about DNA over the last couple of months. Keep in mind I’m pretty green about the science of DNA, actually quite feeble with science in general. I’m still learning the terminology and the tools for understanding DNA results. These are just my impressions.
• DNA tests are easy. I ordered Family Tree DNA’s Family Finder test online. A few days later, it arrived in the mail. Following the simple directions, I used the little brushes that came with the kit to scrape cells and saliva from inside my cheeks. I bundled up the results and sent them back to the test company. The process was quick, painless, easy and cheap. The test only cost $104.
• DNA test results are hard. When I got my results a few weeks later, I was stunned to see the names of more than 600 new cousins, none of whom are first cousins. What should I do with all these matches? I have not found an easy way to sort out the relatives from the two sides of the family especially since none of my matches are closer than second to fourth cousins. I’ve also learned DNA can be random in the way it’s passed down from one generation to the next so that complicates things.
It probably would be helpful for my half-sister, Sissy, to take A DNA test. A cousin who’s a genealogist also suggested I do mitochondrial DNA testing, which would trace my mother’s ancestry only. That would help determine whether I am related to various cousins via my biological mother or biological father.
Hmmm. I’m reluctant to shell out more money for DNA testing. Fortunately, there are smart people with a passion for DNA and genealogy who will answer our questions at no cost. Genetic genealogist Roberta J. Estes has a great website on DNA. Check it out. It is especially helpful if you’re curious about Native American ancestry. The DNAAdoption Group on Yahoo is also helpful and extremely active.
• DNA is time-consuming. Don’t take a DNA test thinking it’ll provide answers to all the burning questions you have about family. I’ve spent countless hours comparing matches in the chromosome browser, attempting to determine who’s related to who on which side of my family. Oh and did I mention the hours I’ve spent writing emails to matches?
How am I related to these people?
• DNA cannot replace old-fashioned detective work. As an adoptee searching for blood relatives, my most significant discovery to date has been finding my half-sister, Sissy. DNA had nothing to do with that discovery. My wonderful search angel, Marilyn Waugh, pointed me in the direction of my mother’s family. Working with online records and old newspaper stories, my husband, Tom, found Sissy’s stepmother’s name. I gave her a call and she put me in touch with my sister.
• DNA is social. I’ve had many pleasant and interesting conversations online with my new DNA cousins. Many are genealogists with a passion for family history. Some are adoptees on a mission to fill in the blanks in their life stories. Whatever their goals are, I can tell they’re good people. I can picture myself having dinner or coffee with some of these folks. That’s how friendly the connections feel.
• DNA is tantalizing. The DNA game never gets old. Every week or so, new cousins are added to my ever-growing list of matches.
Are you sitting down? Here’s an amazing story. Just the other day, I heard about a woman whose birth mother turned up as a DNA match. How thrilling that must have been for her. She and her mother have talked on the phone. Maybe a face-to-face reunion is on the horizon.
Hearing that story sends chills down my spine and inspires me to stick with this project no matter how long it takes.
I took a DNA test to find blood relatives who might know my biological father’s identity.
Me and my DNA
I am an adoptee on a mission. I’ve written about the mystery man before, the father who really wasn’t a father to me. I don’t need (or want) to meet bio dad. In fact, the thought of meeting him actually scares me. But I would like some answers. What’s his name, what did he do for a living, does he have a family, do I have other brothers and sisters? How did he meet Lillian, my birth mother? I wonder if he and I look anything alike. Photos along withfacts would be great.
I’ve talked to a handful of people who were close to Lillian, hoping they would know who my father was but nobody knows (or they’re not saying). Finding my bio dad is like locating an available New York taxi in a downpour. Still, I am giving it my best shot.
Well, I got my DNA test results and I am a little disappointed. None of the more than 600 matches are close relatives. There are no siblings or half siblings. I have cousins, hundreds of cousins, but they’re not exactly kissing cousins if you know what I mean. There’s not a single first cousin on my list of matches. The closest relatives are second cousins and many are even more distant on the family tree.
I knew a DNA test was a long shot. Taking the test was quick and painless. Interpreting the results is time consuming and hard.
Using Family Tree DNA’s chromosome browser feature, I try to separate the cousins on my maternal side from those on my father’s side. I have emailed a few of my DNA matches to introduce myself and delicately inquire about the nature of our relationship. I don’t use the “A” word (adopted) unless I know I’m talking to another adoptee. As my fellow adoptees know, that word makes some people nervous.
Three of my cousins got back to me and wouldn’t you know? They’re all from Lillian’s side of the family. Two are genealogy buffs. Shannon and I have exchanged several friendly emails. She’s shared many interesting stories about how our Irish ancestors scraped by and filled me in on the diseases that run in our family. That’s valuable information. I like Shannon and hope we meet in person some day.
In a few hours, Sharon managed to put together a family tree for me. How did she do it so quickly? I was awed by her skill. Thanks to Shannon and Sharon, I know quite a bit about my ancestors on Lillian’s side of the family.
I shared the family tree with another cousin, Duane, who used it to create a tree of his own. Duane and I have gotten friendly. We’re both adopted, close in age and on similar missions. Duane and I are seeking answers to questions about our birth parents.
Two cousins never responded to my emails. I believe they are from my father’s side of the family. Wouldn’t you know?
I thought about calling one of them. He is a few years younger than me and looks friendly enough on his Facebook page. Most important, this guy is one of my closest DNA matches, and he has taken a Y-DNA test. Perhaps he knows who my father is. Maybe he is also adopted? Since he hasn’t responded to emails, would he be more receptive to a phone call?
For adoptees who have taken DNA tests, what would you do in my situation? Have you called any of your matches directly? Is it taboo to call a match who doesn’t respond to emails?
I feel discouraged. I am no closer to answering the big question hanging over me: Who is my father.
This is hard work. I need encouragement so I am re-reading Richard Hill’s excellent book, “Finding Family” for motivation and tips. An adoptee, Hill used DNA tests and old-fashioned detective work to learn the identity of his father.
I take comfort knowing it took Hill many years to dig up the truth. That could be my future, too. I have a lot of spade work ahead of me.
He did not pass his genes on to me but so what? Bob did all the things good fathers are supposed to do. He read stories to me before bedtime. He played tennis with me. He drove me and my sister, Melissa, to the piano teacher’s house for lessons. (He never covered his ears when we practiced.)
That’s me with Dad in Virginia Beach in 1998
When the fourth grade bully jumped on my back and knocked me down, Dad chased Maureen, grabbed her by the collar and hauled her into the principal’s office.
When I was in eighth grade, my parents wanted to get me into a high school in a better neighborhood. Dad talked to the principal. Tell the school your daughter wants to study cosmetology, the principal advised. Well what do you know? My make-believe interest in hair styling got me into a newer high school in a safer neighborhood on Chicago’s southwest side. Way to go, Bob, and good tip from Mr. Mulcahey.
Born in 1910, Bob Miller grew up in a big family – he had something like 10 brothers and sisters. They lived in Menominee, a tiny town in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. “God’s country,” was how he described the area.
Bob moved south, lived in a boardinghouse when he was young and single and worked as a linotype operator. My mother, Claire, accused him of having that “boardinghouse reach” whenever he helped himself to seconds at dinner. Dad could really eat, especially dessert. For a man with a hearty appetite, Bob was always slender, skinny actually. I used to think I inherited his appetite and metabolism. When I was a girl, I could pack the food away and never gain an ounce. I also have slender fingers which I used to think I got from my father.
My parents, Bob and Claire, with their son, Bobby, in the 1940s
Bob was an unrefined gentleman. He cursed freely but the words didn’t mean much. He would have been a better dad if he had stood up to Claire occasionally. He always deferred to our high-strung, self-centered mother.
The last time I saw my father, he was flat on his back on a hospital bed. Even though he was dying, Bob gave me a smile when I said good-bye.
Bob Miller was not my biological father but I didn’t know that when he passed away in 1999, less than a year after Claire died. My loving but secretive parents never told Melissa and me we were adopted. We never found a single document related to our adoptions. One of our cousins told us the truth in 2002.
My biological dad is “not legally known,” as the birth certificate puts it. That makes me some man’s love child. He’s a mystery to me whoever he is. As I wrote earlier, my bio dad liked to play golf but that’s all I know about him. He may know even less about me.
Do you know who your dad is? What do you think of him?
