Unfair

Nothing about my conception will ever be fair, and that’s the horrible yet honest truth to it all. At first, all I wanted was the little details about him. I wanted to know the color of his eyes when he stared back at someone else. I wished I didn’t have to imagine the skin tone he had. I wondered what color his hair was. Ultimately, I came to the decision that those details would be enough, at least enough to tide me over. That right there is the issue actually, the fact that all those details are ever going to have the ability to do for anybody is tide them over. It’s all such a temporary happiness, knowing those little details. Luckily for me, my mom was able to fill me in on those little details, since she had recalled what the papers had said. At age 8 that was just enough to know, but the concept of ‘the papers’ never drifted away. Years passed by, and every night I would spend some of my own time searching for those papers, not knowing what I was looking for or what I would find. Maybe this was the turning point, or maybe it wasn’t, but when I finally found the donor information papers all I could do was cry. Everything got more serious than it ever had been. I knew his favorite colors, what animal made him the happiest, his passions. It all got too personal and too unfair once again. It is not fair to get to know such personal facts from a stranger. This was when I knew that I would always want more, I wanted a name, I wanted to be able to stare at a picture of the man who was half of who I am. I deserved more than what his major was in college, or that he was over six feet tall. This had me forcing myself to believe that a picture of him would be just enough. Long story short, it wasn’t. Knowing his name wasn’t enough either. My conception was unfair, not to my beautiful mother who longed to have a girl like me in her life, but for me. I am the one that lies awake at night staring at a photograph of some man that was taken in the 90’s, the man that is supposedly my biological father. I am the one that changes the subject really fast at the dinner table of my friends’ homes when their parents ask (with good intentions of course), “So what does your father do for a living?” I will always be the one that feels out of place or unsatisfied because nothing will ever be enough for me. I was created through a stranger that probably needed to pay his apartment rent and a mom that spent thousands of dollars for a corrupt girl like me. Some days I just wish I never had the opportunity of knowing any of this, and then over days I wished that I had the guts to type a message to him and tell him what he has missed out on. But I have come to understand that what I want may not be what he wants, messaging him is pointless. Messaging him will be the last step, it could be the end of the road for me afterwards and that is too scary to even handle. My conception was unfair, but what would be even more unfair is messing up the life of the man who gave me life.