I Accidentally Found My Real Father

Every child wants and deserves to know where they come from; including me

Several weeks ago, I discovered that the man I had grown up thinking was my father wasn’t my biological father. There were never questions on my part or rumors within the family. This discovery was purely by accident, and even when I think about it, it was sort of a miracle as to how this came about.

I normally don’t give disclaimers to my writing, but I think it’s important for such a sensitive topic: There is going to be information I’m just not going to provide due to being too personal. I have no anger or resentment towards anyone, so the purpose of this isn’t to attack or judge anyone; it’s to tell my story.

However, this is going to be a longer-than-normal post due to the amount of details I am willing to provide.

If we are to start from the beginning: The man who I thought was my father wasn’t really active in my life. I’ve written in my book “The Children We Left Behind,” describing him as a stranger. After we left Detroit, where I was born and where he lived, I would hear from him maybe once a year and sporadically see him if he was driving to the northeast.

When he did come to visit us, it never felt like he was there to see me. The best way of describing his visits is to compare them to a pit stop on the way to a greater destination for his travels.

We didn’t really interact much, and I never felt like he cared about me. At most, he felt obligated to do small gestures, but he didn’t genuinely care about my welfare or emotional state.

The last time I saw my father was when I was about 16 years old, and the last time I talked to him on the phone, I was about 21 years old, and it was a short conversation initiated by me. It was brief because it was clear that he wasn’t interested in talking to me and made it feel like I was bothering him.

From that moment on, I told myself that I wasn’t going to try to build a relationship with him, but if he were to call me, I’d answer. He never called back and has since passed away.

It took years of self-reflection and therapy to accept that my father didn’t love me, but his lack of love or care was not my fault. It’s no kid’s fault. This acceptance is the only way that I’m even able to talk about it because it stopped being a pain point for me. I can’t shed tears as if I’m responsible for his neglect.

I stopped hating him and being angry at him and forgave him for his failures. I used his faults as a lesson to not become like him with my son. My first motivation when my son was born was to be the opposite of him and build a wonderful relationship with him (my son will be 21 in less than a month).

Fast forward to several weeks ago, when I’m sitting on the couch watching talk shows featuring adults who are looking for their fathers and siblings. I’ve always known that I had a sister out there that was fathered by him, but just didn’t care to know more until that day. I thought to myself, “What if she’s looking for me?”

Based on information I knew, he wasn’t active in her life at all, and all I had was a first name and possible location. At first, I searched on Facebook and Google for some potential clues but found nothing. My wife suggested I get an Ancestry.com DNA test to see if something comes back linking me to her; I agreed that it was a good idea.

A few weeks later, I get a notification that my results are in. The way Ancestry results are separated is by mother and father. My father was born in Trinidad and migrated to the U.S. as an adult, so my expectation was to see information about lineage to the Caribbean.

However, when I clicked on my father’s side, his surname wasn’t listed and all of the names there were typical African American names.

The closest relative with DNA results was a first cousin, and in his tree, our lineage wasn’t directed toward the Caribbean but instead toward Mississippi.

I stared at my screen for about 20 minutes trying to make sense of what I was reading. It took that long to accept the reality: The only way this makes sense is if he’s not my biological father.

I called my wife over and discussed it with her to make sure that I wasn’t crazy to come to this conclusion.

I didn’t know what to do next. I sent my first cousin a message but got no response at the time. I mean, how do you go into a situation like this to tell someone that one of their relatives is my father?

I ultimately contacted a “Search Angel” who happened to be from the Detroit area. She took on my case for free to try to figure out who my father is. A couple weeks went by, and she figured out who my cousin was and contacted him directly.

He’s a police officer and thought that she was some sort of scammer at first, but eventually realized that what was being discussed was real.

The next morning, he replied to my message on Ancestry and we immediately had a phone call. I told him everything, gave him names and pictures. I supplied him with details that could be useful in the search. He agreed that it had to be someone in his family that he knew.

You see shows like what I’m going through where the family wants nothing to do with a person like me in this circumstance, but before the end of our call, he told me “You are loved and accepted. You are family.”

For a kid who grew up without half of my identity as part of my life, that meant the world to me. I didn’t know if we’d find my father at that moment, but I knew that I at least was accepted.

Later that afternoon, he called me.

“Are you sitting down?”

“No,” I replied.

“I think you should sit down.”

I sat down and then he delivered the news.

“We found your father.”

I audibly cried like a small child; that’s the only way I can describe what was coming out of me. I didn’t think I would find him and figured that half of my identity would be a mystery.

After our initial phone call, he called around and reached a relative, providing certain information but withholding some to see if it was a match. He remembered my mother, remembered the circumstance of her being pregnant, but didn’t know that I was his child. Coincidentally, my uncle remembers her too because it was through his first wife that she was introduced to him.

Before I spoke to my father on the phone, my uncle called me and told me the same thing as my cousin: You are loved, you are accepted, and you are family.

The moment came and I heard my father’s voice for the first time. He was happy to talk to me and apologized to me because he had no idea that I was his child. He’s 76 years old, a veteran and a father of other children.

Unlike the other man, he wants a relationship with me. He cares that I’m doing all right and has reached out to me every day since. My cousins and uncles message me all the time, and in such a short time, I feel a great closeness with them.

This past Father’s Day was a difficult one for me. I was at church without my wife, and while I’m always emotional at church, it was incredibly difficult for me to hold back tears that day. My deacon came by me and asked me if I was okay after the service, and I broke down crying.

I accepted that my father was dead and I was going to live the rest of my life never being able to have a bond with my father, but it didn’t mean I liked it. I was glad that my son never had to go through what I did as a child, but I would have given anything to have a father that actually cared about how I was feeling.

I feel like this entire situation was God hearing my cries. He answered a mystery that I didn’t even know existed. Growing up, everyone told me that I looked like my mother because I didn’t look like my “father.” Sounds silly, but I never agreed that my likeness was similar to my mother. I look exactly like my father and my siblings. I have facial features that are strong within my father’s side of the family. My father’s side features creatives too, like writers, songwriters (one wrote for Motown back in the day), and musicians. My father has been into photography for years, and my uncle does it professionally.

I’m currently sitting on the balcony of an Airbnb in Crete, Greece, and even though I’m thousands of miles away from him and eight hours ahead of my father, every morning I wake up to a message from him.

I plan to meet him in October as I’m attending a conference in the same state he lives in. I should also be meeting some of my cousins in October. My uncle, who lives in Detroit, said he wants to throw an entire family event just to welcome me to the family.

I think I would feel differently if the man who I thought was my father was incredibly close to me and I looked up to him, but in this case, my biological father is filling in the gaps of what I didn’t have my entire life.

I don’t know how many years or days I have with my father, and I’m just incredibly grateful that I found this out now while he’s still alive.

Because I know some might ask: No, I don’t believe that my “father” was distant because he suspected I wasn’t his. He was neglectful to all of his children and never questioned paternity. He was just a terrible father.

Every child wants and deserves to know where they come from. We all deserve an opportunity to build a bond with the people who brought us life.

There is absolutely no point in debating the past, especially from my position. All I care about is the truth, ugly or not, and having the opportunity to move forward with my real father and new family.

There is no room in my heart for anything other than happiness for God hearing my distress and bringing this truth to light. I am immensely grateful.