Beautiful Question Mark

When I was in my mid-twenties my mother told me that my father "probably wasn't my father”.

I dropped out of college after my sophomore year. I knocked around Columbus, Ohio for a couple of years and then moved back to my hometown of Mansfield, Ohio to help with a play a friend of mine was in. I was waiting tables at a chain Mexican restaurant across from the mall. I was also working with a local non-profit, doing elementary school assemblies on reading and civics. One morning I had a gig at a school that was close to (probably not) my father's farm and as I drove by I had a minor attack of guilt.

My relationship with (probably not) my father was never that great. My mother divorced him before I can remember. He was a German immigrant who had served against his will on the wrong side in World War II. He was captured as a prisoner of war and subsequently immigrated to the US, landing in Ohio. He was a tool and die maker, machinist and farmer. He worked constantly. I am told that he was physically abusive to at least one of my siblings.

My mother never said a lot of bad things about (probably not) my father, but she didn't have to. Her friends, mother and sisters served as a sort of Greek chorus and established a narrative of him being mean, greedy, dirty and uncivilized. He had bad manners and did not bath regularly.  He was also accused of trying to pry us away from our mother out of spite. She had primary custody of us while he had visitation rights. We would spend one or two evenings a week and every other weekend at his house. When I was little he lived in a house about five blocks away but he later remarried and moved to a small farm outside of town. One of my two brothers moved in with him.

As my siblings grew up visitation gradually phased out.  I didn't like his wife and wasn't really very comfortable with him. Finally at one point when I cancelled my visit for the hundredth time, he told me to call when I wanted to come rather than calling to cancel.  After that I only saw him on occasions when presents were involved  - Christmas and birthdays.

That day (probably not) my father was on my mind as I pulled into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant where I worked to pick up my check. I was a little surprised to see my mother’s car in the parking lot. I found her in the dining room. She had come in to have lunch on the off-chance that I was working. I joined her.

My mother wasn't much of a drinker. That afternoon I introduced her to the margarita. After a couple, I mentioned that I had driven by my father's house and was feeling guilty over the fact that I didn't have a relationship with him. And that's when she said it.  "Well you shouldn't feel guilty. He probably isn't your father."

I remember a feeling of incredible relief. It wasn’t just about whatever guilt I'd had but also, since I had been trained to think of my father as a villain, a larger sense of relief that I was not the offspring of such a person. It was a fulfillment of the "adopted orphan fantasy" that lots of older children and adolescents have. (These people can't be my real parents - I must be adopted.) In an instant, in my family tree, an asshole was replaced with a question mark. That felt pretty good.

After a few minutes to digest this information, I was compelled to ask the follow up question, "If he isn't my father, then who is?"

Without missing a beat, my mother replied, "That's none of your business."

It's long story, but I saw his picture for the first time two days ago. Here...