Father, Father

You would think that after so many deceptions, that I would cease to be surprised by them. But I still am. Every time.

It is unsettling how these things come to the surface and pockmark the face of my life and it always happens in those few moments when I feel normal and whole, then the harshness of the unknown rises to the surface and leaves a scar.

It marred the face of yesterday which was my son’s 9th birthday, another pearl on the string of his life. The family was there, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, people who love us and whom we love.  

It is just a casual conversation between two people, my Father and one of my brother-in-laws. For some reason, the topic of blood type comes up. My Brother-in-law mentions his blood type is type O-, the universal donor. My Father checks his blood donor card in his wallet, he is type O+.

My heart stops or feels like it. Didn't my mother say that she was the universal donor, O-?

I remember a story someone told me years ago, about being in college biology class. The teacher was telling the class about inherited traits. Two blue-eyed parents can only have blue-eyed children. The recessive trait requires that both parents carry a pair of recessive genes. A student raised her hand and protested, “Both of my parents have blue eyes and mine are brown.”

“Then maybe you should speak to your parents,” the teacher replied, “because there is something they aren’t telling you."

Come to find out, the girl was adopted. Her parents had never told her but biology did.

I was always decent at biology, and I think I remember something about blood types and genetics.

“I thought my mother told me she is type O,” I say to my Father. 

“Maybe you actually belong to the postman,” my Brother-in-law quips, thinking he’s funny, but I am not laughing inside. 

Once it's said I wonder if it has taken root in my Father’s heart as it did in mine.

I haven't spoken to my mother in years because I hate her. Oh, and there is also the little matter of the restraining order which makes it illegal for her to contact us or to come within 50ft of me and/or my children. 

And now this, this sucker punch to the gut, this unexpected blow. Maybe my Father is not my Father. Yes, I know that it really shouldn't matter. He loves me, He fought custody battles for me and hired private detectives to find us, and loved me in action and in word. But that is when he thought I was his. What if now he figures out that I can’t be, that I must be the child brought about through one wicked women’s infidelity or maybe even incest.

I don't want to be a bastard but an inbred bastard is even worse.

This is not a good day anymore, but the conversation has changed. My Brother-in-law is asking how many more cheeseburgers are needed off the grill and my Father is wondering if the corn will ever boil. I change my thoughts too. This is my son’s birthday and we are here to celebrate him. At least I am certain who his father is.

It doesn't go away though. It is a lead necklace, weighting me down even though I am no longer conscious of wearing it. 

So today I try to find out, find out if I am right or wrong about my mother’s blood type. Maybe I misremembered. Maybe her blood type is AB the universal platelet donor. I remember her donating platelets years ago when I was in college, or at least telling me that she was.

But there are no answers. Privacy laws dictate her privacy and give me no justice. Her blood type is apparently her business even though she passed it on to me, at least partially. Even though she could have deceived me about one more dear thing I do not want her to have lied about. 

It was awful to find out how awful my mother was, that she was wicked and sick and vile, but she was still my mother and I knew where I came from and that let me chose to separate from her forever.

But if my father is not my biological father, will that change the way he feels about me? If the family resemblance is only imagined and acquired, not inherited? Will it alter the relationship that he has with my children, who would not actually be of his lineage, but that of another man who my mother cuckold him?

I don't want to think about this. Maybe I should just write it off, tell myself I don't actually know my mother’s blood type, and that my Father is my Father no matter what genetics say. If I have another Father, I certainly don’t want to know him. I love the one I already have.

I email my counselor. Not my emotions, just my suspicions, my information. What does she think? 

Her reply, 

“I’m not sure if you can get any confirmation either way. But...do you want it?”

I think about it. Wonder what the point would be. I walk from room to room, picking up my children’s detritus, going through the motions of a normal day, but my head is too full of questions to connect with my actions.

Do I want the truth, if the truth will steal my heritage from me? Can I let it rest or will I worry my heart to bits?

I need this settled, so I will settle it. If it is a lie, then it turned out to be a true one.

I email my counselor, “I am my Father’s daughter. I look like him even if it is just learned. So I’ll just go with that.”

A lie I just made true. 

“I was hoping you would say that,” she replied “You are your Father’s daughter, there is no doubt!”

And I am. I have made it so.