The Main Event

Wednesday I was in knots all day.

This was the day where I’d planned to have dinner with my father. I would hopefully find out who my parents were, how he and my mother adopted me… if my birthday was even my birthday. I really like my birthday. Was I going to have to give up another facet of my identity?

I had so many questions to ask my father during dinner, but I also knew the conversation would be a challenging one on many levels.

You see, my father and I were not particularly close as I grew up. He is a musician who is incredibly dedicated to his work which was very closely connected to our church. He disliked vacations, so while my mother and I traveled, he stayed at home, preferring to spend his time working on his next big concert, tour, or production.

I definitely learned a strong work ethic from him, but was frustrated by his lack of involvement in my life on a personal level. He got me up, made me breakfast, and drove me to school (religious, private school kid, remember?) every day, but couldn’t really tell me any of my friend’s names or anything I was interested in. To this day, he still doesn’t know most of my friend’s names, often referring to them as “cutie” or “guy,” even if they are people who have been in my/our life for 15+ years, much to their exasperation.

This didn’t concern me much, as my father is the archetypical musician—passionate, absent-minded, self-absorbed, and driven. His music was, and is, his life; through it he met my mother, raised my musically talented sister, and then developed a network of musicians who became like family to him, and eventually, me too. These are people who I considered to be extra parents, unofficial aunts and uncles, older adopted siblings, not-so-distant cousins.

In many ways, it’s probably one of the reasons I’m probably dealing with my adoption in the way I am. I learned that love has no boundaries, because love makes a family, not blood. Perhaps it was a subconscious way to prepare me for the truth about my biological parents. Or maybe it’s just that he likes to be the center of attention, and it allowed the mentor/director role to continue into the extended family.

Now, these are all thoughts I’ve had in retrospection after many years of being hurt at the limited relationship I have had with my dad, given how many people he has in his life who love and respect him. It was also difficult to fully comprehend his narcissistic tendencies because of all the amazing things he’s done in his life, mostly to the glory of God (but, with more than a little glory going to him too.).

I was concerned what he would tell me at dinner. Would he remember my biological mother’s name? How did he find her? Did he know anything about my biological father? Was there a way to help me find my biological parents? Did they want to stay in contact? Did they not want to stay in contact?

We met at an Italian restaurant. I had planned to arrive earlier than him, sit at a corner table to be away from others, and get my head in the game. Instead, he had arrived early, and was next to a group of twelve.

It was clearly the perfect setting to have a life-altering conversation with my father, you know, with an audience of strangers. I sighed and moved over to him.

We spoke of different things as we looked at the menu. Mostly, he shared some details about his choir; upcoming performances, explanations about future endeavors. When the server arrived, I ordered, not my usual glass of wine, but a bottle. It felt like it was going to be a bottle-of-wine conversation. I figured I had better be prepared for whatever came next.

After making it through a salad, a glass of wine, and the arrival of our dinner, I finally took charge of the conversation.

“We need to talk about something.”

“Oh... Ok.”

“Before I begin, I want you to know that after I explain what we need to talk about, I’m not angry with you. I finally read mom’s card…”

“Oh good!”

“…and I find it ironic that she wants to build a relationship on honesty, when it has recently come to my attention that I’m adopted.”

I’m not sure what would have prepared me for the next few minutes. I assumed my father might offer a hug, or ask how I’m doing, or anything showing concern for me and the shock I was (and am) going through.

Instead, my father started to cry while saying the following… “I’m so relieved. A huge weight has been lifted from my chest! Thank God someone told you! I’m so thankful!”

You could not have prepared me for that. Incredulity, perhaps. Shame, maybe. Denial would not have surprised me.

But relief?!? A weight was lifted from his chest?!? Seriously?!? While the last thing I wanted to hear was about his thankfulness about not being the person to tell me the truth, I knew that if I didn’t react calmly I may never get the answers I so desperately need and want about where I came from, and how he and my mother came to be given custody of me.

I poured another glass of wine while I told my father that this was not the time for tears. It was the time for answers.

He sucked in the tears, and began to spin his story.