The Bloomin Onion that changed everything.

Eleven years ago, sharing cocktails at an Outback Steakhouse with my mom, I learned that maybe my dad isn't my dad.  Tears did not go well with the Bloomin' Onion we were sharing.

I flew home, called my dad, and he said all the right things.
Me:  Um, I just saw Mom.  She said some upsetting things.  Are you not really my dad?
Dad: It doesn't matter.  We can get tested if you want, but I'm your dad and always will be.

That's so him.  "It doesn't matter."  I asked if he had always known, and he said no.  Which made his reaction all the sweeter.

I'm close to my dad, for the most part.  We've run two marathons together, shared red wine roadies, traveled to Portugal.  There was that whole fifteen(ish) year period where he was married to someone who wasn’t that nice to him and made no effort to include me in their combined life. But, especially after their divorce, he’s been a pretty consistent figure in my life.

And still, occasionally - maybe two or three times a year - I google biodad.  I know his name, his address and phone number, the name and occupation of his daughter.  I know what he does for a living (and his work address) and where he went to school.  For years I was desperate to know what he looks like.  Maybe because I've struggled so much with my own appearance...or because people sometimes say I look like the dad-who-raised-me dad...or because it's natural curiosity to check out where 50% of your DNA comes from, or because sometimes people ask me if I’m Jewish (I’m not…but biodad is).

About a year ago, I found him on Facebook…his profile and a picture.  He’s in his early or mid 70s - largely immune to the Internet but apparently caved to the power of Facebook.  

I’ve waffled back and forth between wanting to meet him and not; between wanting to get his medical records and not; between wanting to meet my half-sister or not. I do know that he knows about me and (I'm guessing here) prefers to keep my existence as a skeleton in his own closet.   

UPDATE: April, 2019
The end game for me was always reaching out…making a move, letting him know that I know and that I know he knows, and seeing what his reaction would be. A couple of weeks ago, in a state of deep depression and in a “fuck it all” mental space, I friended him on Facebook. I even added a note…something along the lines of “I think you know who I am, and this seemed to be just as good as the White Pages in terms of reaching out.” Facebook Messenger indicates that he’s read the message, but no response, no acceptance of the friend request, no acknowledgment of my existence. And, while I generally feel better when the ball is in my court and I don’t have to face the possible rejection, doing something that I’ve thought about for years—attempting outreach—feels oddly satisfying. I’m not convinced that he’ll ever respond. I’m also not convinced that he knows how to use Facebook, so there’s that. Maybe in another year I’ll try again.