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“There was always this thing called DAD — a word I knew, but a reality I never had. I always knew there was a thing; this thing called DAD. But, I knew nothing about it. Except embarrassment when kids would tease me about it. I started telling others that my father was a soldier and he died in a war. It was much better than saying “ I don’t know him “ or “ I don’t know where he is “. People like solid answers. No one likes the unknown. Unknown is weird and different and uncomfortable - so war it is. Also, instinctually and culturally, I learned not to ask questions about “DAD” to my mother. That was never up for discussion. At age 10, for the first time, I saw a photo of my real “DAD”. He was holding me, he was smiling, I was a baby, and my mother was standing next to him, not smiling. It was a 4x6, black and white photo. I stole it from my mother’s boxes and put it under my pillow. I have no recollection on how many nights I got to sleep with it, but I do know it eventually disappeared. It went “missing”. That was the last photo I would ever see of him —- until 25 years later.” Continue reading the full story here → [link]
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