I have been a father for 43-years and a grandfather for twelve. I have two step-daughters that honor me every year, along with three grandchildren. There have also been two fathers, only one of which I’ve known and loved, and another that gave me life. I remember both of my grandfathers fondly as I was growing up, and just recently there are “grand-strangers” that have sprouted branches on my new or “second family tree.”

I have written of my “second family,” that decided not to get to know me, but allowed me life. I could have been aborted rather than adopted, so for that family decision I’m forever grateful. Somehow, I don’t feel that I would have been better off staying with my birth mother, but I also feel that I missed something. I missed getting to know her and her family and that natural blood connection that most people experience with family.

Trust me, I got anything and everything that I needed from my first family, including great love and abundant opportunity. What I didn’t get was a family that looked or sounded like me. I can’t really even speak about other characteristics or a common demeanor that might have been missing, as most people take for granted.

I have a few pictures of my birth mother, her sisters, and parents. I’ve even had a conversation with a cousin, where she recognized familiarity in my voice. I don’t quite understand this yet, but it gives me hope that I will find more connections with these people who share my DNA. I will continue this quest despite the fact that the woman I’m 100% certain is my birth mother is unwilling or unable to admit any connection. 

What I don’t know (and may never) is the identity of my birth father. I know that he was of Irish decent with dark features like mine, a few inches taller, and enjoyed sports like I do. He was supposedly a Marine when I was born, so a veteran like my adopted father, who served in the Army as a medic in WWII. I guess I’m lucky to have had two legitimate fathers, when most people I know just have one. There is, however, only one man that I would ever call “Dad.”

For several years I haven’t had anyone to call on Father’s Day or even send a card. Even the last few years my dad was alive, he tragically couldn’t always remember who I was. I honestly don’t know if my birth father even knew that I existed or how long he may have lived. He could have died as a soldier, or never spoken again to my birth mother. She was presumably carted off in secrecy to the big city to give birth, leaving me only with the name Jerry Lee.

Once again, I’m positive that I’ve found my 85-year old birth mother after all these years, but she is denying any relationship, perhaps out of embarrassment. Only she knows the true identity of the father. It’s really all I want for Father’s Day this year, but I’m sure I’ll get something Cubs-related instead.

Happy Father’s Day to my one and only Dad. May he rest in peace, along with my grandfathers, and the great grand-strangers I never knew. Thank you for accepting me as your only son, and for making me the man I am today. You are my teacher, mentor, life- model, and  hero. Sorry you didn’t live long enough to see your Cubs win the World Series or the birth of Nora Grace. Just know that you are loved every day.