I consider myself lucky to have met my real dad. In the days before I knew who he was, that unanswered question often left me looking at faces in crowds and guessing what he might look like and who he might be. Meeting him helped me to understand who I was. It took a long time to find him. Even though I had his name from the first time I met my real mum, he was almost impossible to find. I tried for years, looking at electoral rolls and phone books. When I asked for help from adoption services, they couldn’t find him either but found his mother’s address. For many years, I kept that information and hoped to find him instead. I was fairly sure he didn’t know I existed. When I was 28 I finally decided to send a letter to his mother. At first, I thought that my attempt at contact had failed. I got an angry phone call from his mother, demanding to know what my letter was about and why I wanted to find him. She told me there was no way that I was his daughter and slammed down the phone. Despite that, she did contact him and tell him I was looking for him and eventually I did meet him. Meeting him was the best moment in my life and suddenly everything made sense. He didn’t look much like me but we shared all the same interests. He also had two daughters and I was thrilled that I would be able to meet them. I didn’t know him for very long. His wife asked for him to cut off all contact and he agreed. I never met my sisters and before I had the chance to really know him, he was gone. All I have are a few memories. I’m back to searching faces in the street and sometimes I think I see him. It’s never him. When I see men working in high-visibility jackets I look for him but he is never there. He could find me if he wanted to.
I consider myself lucky to have met my real dad.