Over the last few days, I've read quite a few journal entries about Dads. The good and the bad, from the respectful and the hurt. I am finally getting around to my Father's Day entry. Some of you know this stuff, some of you don't.

I have only one very clear memory of my father. Mom and Dad divorced by the time my sister and I were four and five years old. There is a picture of me talking on the phone to my father. I think it was taken around my fifth birthday. Mom wrote on the back of it, like she's done with so many of our pictures. The ink spells out that this was the last time I talked to him. For twenty years that was true.

Dad was always a mystery to me. Mom tried not to let the anger, frustration and disappointment she felt about him and their marriage trickle down to us. Sometimes the stress of raising two children alone on a thin shoestring of a budget got to be too much, however and she would verbally lash out at the man who wasn't physically there, but forever lurked on the fringe of our lives. Like someone you catch of glimpse of from corner of your eye before they disappear.

He stopped paying child support and he stopped seeing us. Although I don't know all the details about why Mom and Dad divorced, I know that he was not very responsible with money. He may have embezzled and pilfered from the places he worked. Mom vividly remembers two agents from the FBI at the door to our apartment asking for Dad's whereabouts. Thankfully, I do not have that memory.

Mom went through all the legal channels in an attempt to get him to pay the child support he owed. He would pay for a little while, then disappear again. According to the terms of the divorce, if he was paying child support, he had a right to visitations with us. He never exercised that right.

His father passed way when I was 12 years old. I saw the back of Dad's head as he walked with his mother through O'Hare Airport. We caught a glimpse of him at a restaurant we drove past that same week. Special arrangements were made so that Dit and I could attend the wake while Dad and his wife (I don't know if it was his second or third wife at that time) were not there.

Over the years, I had heard stories about Dad from my family, but never from G.G., his mother. (At least we didn't lose G.G. and Papa in the divorce, too.) G.G. has steadfastly remained mum on the subject of her son, and we never asked. G.G. and Papa had moved to Florida six months before Papa passed away. My sister and I would look for "clues" when we were down in Florida visiting G.G. Not so much to report back to Mom, but to know for ourselves that he was still out there, somewhere, living a very different life from ours.

Dit and I once screwed up our courage and contacted one of his ex-wives, Kathy. Kathy was more than happy to meet with us. Apparently, while Dad and Kathy were still married, she and G.G. had made a concentrated effort to get him to reunite with us. Being the man that he is, he refused and didn't talk to his own mother for a year or more after that. Kathy had given up a little girl for adoption years before, and couldn't understand his unwillingness to be a part of our lives. I had a hard time understanding his reasons, myself. Kathy and I kept in contact for a little while after our meeting and she secretly forwarded his address to us once. (I found out later that Kathy and her daughter had reunited (over the Internet!) and were getting to know each other. I hope all worked out well for them.)

So, now I had Dad's address. By this time, I was married and had found my Bio-Mom, and was looking forward to starting my own family. Why not try to find Dad, too? Maybe finding him would fill this empty puzzle piece of my life. Maybe meeting him would just fill in the answers to some questions. Maybe it was the wrong address. I looked at maps and got directions, you know, just in case.

I debated for a long time about how to approach him. Do I call him? Do I tell G.G. of my plans first? Do I throw the information away? I finally just took the direct approach. I woke up one crisp, sunny, fall morning and got in the car and drove an hour and a half to the address on the little slip of scratch paper.

I saw the house and realized I was scared to death. I pulled in the driveway and I saw a man working in the garage. I took a few deep breaths and wondered if I should just turn around and go home. I could pretend I was just using their driveway as a turn-around. Yeah, that's it. I almost did it, too. Then I realized I would always wonder what would have happened if I had gotten out of the car. I took another deep breath, shut off the engine and opened the door before I changed my mind.

The man wasn't in the garage anymore, so I walked with purpose on very shaky legs up the driveway and to the front door. (I'm sure it's just the wrong address anyway) As I began to walk up the few steps to ring the bell, I saw a sign with the homeowner's last name on it hanging from the door. The sign was heart-shaped and made of wood. It looked very cheery and homey and had their last name painted on it. (Definitely not the wrong address) His last name. Our last name. I began to feel a little queasy and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but I saw movement in the garage again. The blood pounded in my ears as I turned and walked back down the steps, one, two, three and headed towards the man in the garage. He had a rag and some work gloves in his hands. He was polishing or cleaning something. His light blue shirt was untucked from jeans that looked like he'd had them for a while. He looked comfortable and content and not too suspicious, only questioning. His face slightly resembled the 20 odd year old pictures I'd seen of him, pictures that were burned into my memory. I used to look for his face in crowds, especially in places that I'd heard he visited often. Here he was right in front of me, only three feet away. Everything I'd felt for him, about him, every emotion I'd ever had for nearly 25 years was bubbling over. He looked at me and said "Can I help you?" All I could say was, "I'm Kelli." My voice sounded weak and pathetic and small. Tears streamed down my face. I was overwrought with the complexity of what I was feeling. To this day it is hard to describe.

Comprehension slowly dawned on his face along with some other emotion. Was it fear? I'll never really know. He recovered quickly and hugged me saying "Oh God." I cried onto his shoulder, quite possibly with relief. The next thing I remember, we were sitting on the couch in his living room talking. I couldn't look at him. I was angry. I didn't realize how angry until that moment. He didn't really look at me either. Two strangers talking about a life we had 20 years earlier. A life I didn't remember, one that he had chosen to forget.

I don't remember all that was said between us. Just bits and pieces. He actually used the phrase "I don't know what your Mom told you, but…" He wouldn't go into details about things. He hedged. He did not admit anything about instances that happened until I brought up specific facts, and only then his admission came grudgingly. He mentioned receiving a wedding picture from me a couple of years earlier. (Mom wanted to send him a video of our wedding. I said no, but that I had planned to send him a picture.) He told me "It's right in that desk over there. Would you like me to get it?" I said yes. He couldn't find it. Imagine that.

He had the gall to tell me "I was always there for you girls." Um, excuse me? We haven't seen hide nor hair of you for 20 years, yet you were always there for us? Pah-leese. I told him he had a funny way of showing it. I asked him if he remembered our birthdays. He said that he remembered they were close together. (close but no cigar) I told him Dit's was the previous day and mine was three days hence. I got a birthday card from him that year. It was signed "I love you, Dad."

I don't remember walking out of the house, but I remember saying goodbye while I got back into my car. He gave me his phone number and promised that we'd get together for lunch. I talked to him one other time on the phone. I left plenty of messages. I got a Christmas card from him that year, too. "Love, Dad." I never got that lunch.

I sent him a letter the following fall. I told him I didn't regret meeting him, but that it was better for me to just let it go now. He was off the hook. It was a kind of closure for me. I'd come full circle. I'd met him, we talked, he made promises and then disappeared--again. He didn't want to talk to me--again. I got it. At least this time, I had the answers I was looking for. I knew who he was.

I have no need anymore to track down my Bio-Dad. I have all the information I want about him. I know his name and I have a vague idea of where he might live. That's enough for me. I don't even have any questions for him. He made a decision almost 32 years ago and hasn't looked back. That's all I need to know.

Yeah, I still have issues (duh) about the whole dad thing, but I'm working on it. Curiosity and disbelief have (pretty much) taken the place of anger. I'm sad for them both, too. (Although Bio-Dad probably has other kids. My Dad does not have any other children besides Dit and I.)

The best Dad that I've ever seen is Hubby. The love that he feels for Punkin is written all over his face. She adores her Daddy. That's all I ever wanted for her. If I couldn't have that, at least she can.

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