The Day I Found Out My Dad Wasn’t My Dad

This shocking revelation made me question everything.

It was a Monday afternoon. I’d returned from school early before my other siblings. I walked into a heated exchange of angry verbal attacks.

It was kind of strange my dad would be home at 2:30 in the daytime. He worked in the city, 40 miles from the small rural town we lived, and was most at home on the weekends.

Even with the door shut to my Mom and Dad’s bedroom, it couldn’t contain what was going on inside. The anger that transcends their voices vibrated the walls of the two-bedroom bungalow where we lived.

I was bracing for the worst and feared it would have escalated into a fight.

My parent didn't know I’d been back from school and inside the house.

I then heard my name in the heated argument. My ear deliberately tuned in with undivided attention.

By this time, I had broken the rules of tradition for children. I had eavesdropped on a quarrel my parents were having.

“Who are you to judge me!” my father uttered in disgust. “Donnette is the reminder of your infidelity every day, and I’ve lived with it!”.

I felt my life turned upside down instantly. A deep sadness overcame me. I closed the door behind me to the bedroom my sister and I shared and laid face down across the bed and blamed myself. I’m the cause of the quarrel they were having.

Usually, my homework was the first thing I did as I come home from school. But my thoughts fixated on what I’d just heard coming from my father's mouth; I couldn't concentrate that evening.

Hearing those words was a confirmation of what I feared all along — the insecurities I felt about my identity and the possibility my dad was not my dad.

I always felt something was different growing up

My mom and dad have three children. My mom had a daughter before they got married. My oldest sister lived with my grandmother. We were never close.

In my home, there was my elder sister, two years older. I was next, and my little brother was the youngest.

I had many questions about my identity. I looked different from my other siblings.

I had long, thick, black, and curly hair that hung below my shoulders. My skin was lighter than my parents and other siblings.

I looked like a misfit.

My parents and I never shared a bond. I never felt comfortable discussing things that bothered me with them. Looking back, it was the same with my other siblings.

There was no doubt our parents loved us. They just had a strange way of showing it. We never went to bed hungry or walked barefooted. We always had the nicest clothes to wear, even if they were hand-me-down sent by my cousins from New York who outgrew them. Over time, I resorted to accepting that's the way my parents were.

I will never forget that fateful day.

Other than that day, I never heard my parents quarrel. But what my father said that day, I never will forget how it made me feel.

People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel — Maya Angelou

Years had passed since that brawl. But for me, things had never been the same. Neither of my parents disclosed their secret to my face. I never mentioned I heard that conversation between them either.

The uncertainty of who I was

It was a tumultuous journey throughout my adolescent years as I matured and became a woman. The uncertainty about who I am hung like a weight affixed over my head.

Throughout high school, I struggled with maintaining focus. My teacher often called me out in class. “Focus, Donnette, Focus!” she said when I wasn't paying attention.

Seeing other children’s fathers coming to school to represent them, I was overcome by jealously and soon drifted off into la-la land.

“What does my biological father look like? What kind of relationship would we have? What does he do for a living? How did my mom meet him? Do I have other siblings? Does he know I even exist?” These were the questions I asked myself.

If my dad is not my dad, who is my dad then?

I yearned for clarity and answers. I want to know my rightful father.

Looking back on all the relationships I’ve had; They were partly to fill the missing void in my life.

If only I had my biological father's counsel and showed me a better way, things might have been different.

I wouldn't have gotten married at 17, straight out of high school. Maybe I wouldn't have gotten involved with a married man. I would have made better selections on how I chose a man.

That's what fathers do. They protect and look out for their little girls. I felt robbed of that opportunity to be daddy's little girl.

Hurtful impacts on their children

As I grew older, I realized this situation is more common than I could imagine — mothers giving their children to the wrong fathers.

My friend shared over dinner with me a year ago her story similar to mine.

The worst part of all this; both our parents seemed selfish, hell-bent on protecting their self-image, with this secret they intend to take straight to their grave.

They have little or no consideration for the hurtful impact these situations have on children faced with similar circumstances.

Children have a right to know their father.

When children go through turmoil and lack the clarity, they need to progress in life. They make bad choices and decisions that can interrupt their judgment and can have repercussions.

The constant need to search for clarity for a child in this situation can affect them throughout their entire lives.

Parents have a responsibility, to be honest with their children. Tell them the truth about their identity and where they come from. They should stop being selfishly concerned only about protecting their personal image and instead think about the damaging effect a situation like this can have on their child.

Children have a right to know their biological father.

I have a right to know my father.

So parents, please don't rob your child of the joy of knowing their rightful father.