Last week I shared the outcome of my one and only contact with my biological father. If you asked me now to describe precisely my feelings on the whole experience [Psychologist asking: “and how do you feel about that, Francine?”], I’m not sure I could. Today, my whole “Real Father” topic is in a little bubble in my brain, sitting off to the side a bit – there, for sure, but not interacting a lot with what I do, or think, or feel in my ongoing life. There are just different p
Last year on Father’s Day, I wrote about traveling to Japan to meet my father for the first time. We had four long visits. I grew to like this man who only knew me as an infant. He was kind to me. He was quietly funny. He had a gentle spirit. We sat over coffee in our first meeting as he asked and answered questions. He took me to a Chinese Dim Sum restaurant and introduced me to a variety of foods I had never tried. He explained the pouring of fine tea as a waiter ceremoniou
In Post WWII Japan, my father was an Army Intelligence Officer when he met my mother. He and my mother actually had a 10 year loving relationship! In 1955, after my mother was pregnant with me, my father got tuberculosis and was sent back to the United States. Back then, tuberculosis had a poor prognosis and my mother thought she would never see my father again. My father promised he would return to her. When I was born, my mother and I lived with my Obaachan. The notes on t
I knew quite a lot about him. I wondered if he was curious about what had happened to me. I worried a lot about the reaction I would get when he answered the phone. I worried he wouldn’t answer the phone. I worried that his wife would answer the phone. I worried a lot. But I made the call. Before making the call, I wrote down anything I thought I might say in Japanese and in English. Although Japanese was my first language, my adoptive mother stopped speaking Japanese to me w
not wanting to call. He left me when my mother died. I was one. He returned about a year later with a new wife, who didn’t want me. And he left again. Over 40 years later, I hired a private detective and he gave me a telephone number. My father was an expat still living in Japan, and had been living at the same address all those years. I put the telephone number away in my desk. A few months later, Thanksgiving Dinner was done and the TV was off. Everyone had gone to bed. Th
I love my life and lifestyle but it wasn't always this way ...