One of Life's Great Mysteries

My mother and father  (copyrighted)

It's become quite commonplace with all the genealogy websites for people to search for their roots. I, however, am searching for something more like the whole tree.

My parents broke up when I was barely two months old. I never knew my father, which sounds like a blessing given all of his apparent shortcomings. Coming from a "broken home" was unusual in a prairie city in the 1970s, and although I don't recall being teased about it, I do remember feeling different than my friends. My mother eventually remarried, I acquired my first father figure, and I quickly learned the lesson about being careful what you wish for.

My "real" father was something we just didn't talk about. I wasn't comfortable asking, and my mother clearly wasn't comfortable telling. In hindsight I have to give her full credit for everything she managed NOT to say, because despite the difficulty of growing up with so many unanswered questions, it would have been harder to hear the truth about what an ugly, drunken, loser he truly was. It's impossible for me to imagine my smart, kind, giving, funny, hard-working, loving, successful mother choosing to settle down with this underachiever, but she was ridiculously young and agrees now with the statement that "you marry to the level of your self-esteem".

She finally provided some answers when I worked up the courage to ask a few direct questions in my 30s. When I learned something about what her life had been like with him, and how little he had ever done to help care for her or for me (including going on a bender the day my mother unexpectedly went into labour, leaving her to drive herself to the hospital and recover alone for days - gold star, Dad), I made the decision to not look for him. I asked Mom questions because my curiosity was on the verge of getting the better of me, and I'd found myself periodically Googling his name. Her story made me feel that nothing could be gained by finding him; that if I did, I'd be more inclined to harm him than to hug him.

Fast forward ten years, and I find myself in a very different place. I don't need this man to be my dad. I'm not looking for someone to give that moniker to, nor to share holidays with, nor to impart sage fatherly advice. As I have embarked on a journey to create my own family, what I find myself needing is simply some answers to basic questions that harbour no judgement. I just want to know half of my family's medical history, where I came from, and what became of my relatives (including a half-brother overseas that this only child would love to know). I fear I've left this too long now. If I'm fortunate enough to have my own children, I don't want to pass on the feeling of being incomplete. The gaps in my family history are big enough to fall into.

I've finally set the ball in motion, and called a private investigator. I started with a well-known firm in Toronto called Pinkerton's, but it took Glen Bacon so long to acknowledge two voice mails and an email that I chose to find someone else. Since I think my father may be in BC I called Arbor Investigations in Vancouver, and gave them a $500 retainer.

It's been two weeks since I handed over this very emotionally-charged case to a rough-sounding young woman with a smoker's voice. She could call me at any minute and tell me my father died years ago, and the trail ends there. Or she could call me with an address and phone number, and a new trail begins there. If she calls and says they require additional money I'm not sure what I will do. I think I have to know what became of him, and I'll probably keep going until someone finds me the answer.

Which will it be?