PART 6 — MY BIOLOGICAL FATHER HAD BURIED A DAUGHTER TOO
I found Julian Mercer through an attorney.
He was fifty-one.
Living in Nashville.
Still involved in music, though no longer touring.
He repaired vintage guitars and occasionally played studio sessions.
He agreed to DNA testing immediately.
The result confirmed paternity.
Then he asked whether I wanted to speak.
I waited two weeks.
Not because I hated him.
Because I had learned that finding relatives quickly did not obligate me to feel quickly.
We spoke by video first.
Julian stared at me for several seconds.
Then smiled sadly.
“You have Rose’s eyes.”
I almost ended the call.
“I’m sorry.”
“People keep saying that.”
“I imagine.”
He looked nervous.
That helped.
“What were you told when I was born?”
“That you were healthy.”
“And after Rose died?”
Julian looked down.
“Charles told me you developed breathing problems.”
“Charles?”
“Yes.”
“Not a doctor?”
“I wasn’t allowed on the private floor after Rose’s parents complained.”
My jaw tightened.
Julian said Arnold Mercer—not related to him—called two days later.
He told Julian the baby had died.
“I asked to see you.”
“And?”
“They said Eleanor had already authorized burial.”
“She hadn’t.”
Julian closed his eyes.
“I know that now.”
“Why didn’t you go to the funeral?”
“I tried.”
That surprised me.
He drove to Philadelphia.
A security guard at the family home refused him entry.
The funeral home told him the service was private.
He waited outside the cemetery.
From a distance, he saw the small coffin.
“I believed it.”
Of course he did.
“What happened after?”
“I fell apart.”
Julian had already been using drugs recreationally.
After Rose’s death, it worsened.
Two years later he entered treatment.
He had been sober for twenty-four years.
“Did you ever investigate?”
“Yes.”
That surprised me again.
“At first nobody would talk to me.”
Then, seven years after Rose died, Julian hired an attorney.
The attorney requested birth and death records.
They could find Rose’s death certificate.
Not mine.
“They told me infant records sometimes had errors.”
Same explanation Eleanor received.
“Did you contact Eleanor?”
Julian looked ashamed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I hated her.”
Fair.
“I blamed her family for keeping me from Rose.”
“Did you believe she knew?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
I did.
Not then.
Later enough to suspect.
I asked:
“Why stop looking?”
Julian was quiet.
“I had no evidence you were alive.”
He looked toward the camera.
“And every time I reopened it, I stopped functioning.”
That was not heroic.
It was human.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not being better at grief.”
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
I thought about my adoptive parents.
While Julian mourned a baby he thought he had buried, Thomas Reed taught me to ride a bike.
Linda Reed sat beside my bed during asthma attacks.
Another family formed in the space created by a lie.
“Do you want to be my father?” I asked.
Julian looked startled.
“No.”
I appreciated the answer.
Then he corrected himself.
“I mean, I would never ask for that title.”
“Good.”
“I want to know you if you want to know me.”
That was better.
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Married?”
“Divorced.”
“Did she know about me?”
“Yes.”
“Everybody knew except me.”
He winced.
“Yeah.”
We met in person two months later.
My parents came with me.
That was my choice.
Julian looked more nervous meeting Thomas Reed than meeting me.
Dad shook his hand.
“Julian.”
“Mr. Reed.”
“Tom.”
Awkward.
Then Julian said:
“Thank you for raising her.”
Dad’s expression changed.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.”
Julian swallowed.
“I still want to.”
Dad nodded.
That was enough.
Nobody competed.
Nobody announced which man was my real father.
May you like
Biology had finally answered where I came from.
It did not need to rewrite who stayed.
