Michis, 25
Submitted Aug 27, 2006
Have met my father Michis has met her father
Decided to not stay in contact Michis decided not to stay in contact with her father
My parents met at a home for drug-addicted youths. Mom was 15, Dad was 17. They had an occasional fling on a couch and it resulted in me.
Dad's parents tried to convince mom to have an abortion, even paid her to do one - she decided to keep both the money and me.
She was just 16 when I came along though, and she was just too young to understand what a baby needed and just didn't have that nurturing stroke in her anyway, so I got sent into foster care.
I came to a lovely family in the rural area of southern Sweden, where I grew up in a normal family environment. Fostermom, fosterdad and two older fostersiblings to fight with and be loved by.
I was just three months old when I arrived there, but they never told me any lies. They told me straight up as soon as I got old enough to ask that I had another mommy and another daddy.
Mom came by now and then, always dragging some new boyfriend with her, until my fosterparents decided that it was enough. Either she came alone or she shouldn't bother to come at all. She didn't come at all, probably the easiest way out for her.
So I had met my mother, and I had seen my father in the courtroom on the day they established that he was my biological father, however, I didn't remember that.
I grew up in the fosterfamily as if it had been my own, occasionally being mean and rude and throwing "If I'd been your real daughter, you wouldn't have been so mean to me!"-fits around me.
When I was sixteen, I asked my fostermom to poke around to see if my biological dad was dead or alive. She assured me that he was alive, since we would have heard if he had died, what with heritage and stuff like that, but she did ask the social services to tell my biological dad that his daughter wanted to see him.
And a few months later, he actually came by our house.
I was so nervous. I hadn't a clue how he would look like, or how he would be. All I knew was that he'd been using heroin since the eighties and that he had blue eyes and blonde hair, just like me.
It was very formal when we met. I don't remember much more about him than that and the fact that he was terribly skinny and looked so old, much older than the 33 years that he actually was. Heroin does that to you, I suppose.
He told me that he had two more children with two different women.
Then he left some photos of these "new" siblings to me, some photos of himself and a photo of my grandfather and grandmother.
When he left me that day, he promised to keep in touch. He said he was proud of me, of my grades, of the art I'd done and stuff like that. The next March I got a birthday card from him.

...too bad my birthday is in September.

I decided that I wouldn't stay in touch.
If he wants to remember that his firstborn was a daughter with his blue eyes and his blonde hair, then it's up to him to talk to me.
If I ever have children of my own and they ask about their grandfather, I'll probably just say that I don't know where he is - if he's still alive by then.
I don't know if that is the right thing to do - but that man is hardly my father or has the right to call himself my father.