The Search That Led to Disappointment, A story of searching for a donor father, met with disappointment.
Growing up, it was just me, my mom, and my two amazing godparents. I always knew I didn’t have a biological father in my life. I was five years old, explaining to my friends why I didn’t have a dad. As a kid, I barely felt the absence—I liked the attention, to be honest. But as I hit my teenage years, resentment toward my mom crept in. I learned that she had chosen an anonymous sperm donor, and when I asked her why, she said she didn’t want my donor fighting for custody because she was a lesbian. That answer never sat well with me. Maybe it wasn’t the right decision, or maybe it was, but it didn’t change how I felt.
What got me through those tough teenage years was the thought of getting a donor card when I turned 18. I didn’t want a relationship with him; I just wanted to know what he looked like. Over time, that curiosity turned into anger. I was angry about my entire existence, about being denied the chance to know half of where I came from. When I turned 18, my mom called the clinic to get her records, only to find out they’d been missing since 2012—the same year the doctor who handled my conception retired. My mom felt awful, and I could see it. She had no way of knowing that the promise she made me as a child wouldn’t be possible to keep. That Christmas, she got me a DNA kit, and for the first time in a long time, I felt hope.
The results weren’t surprising. All my ancestors came from Europe, and most of my DNA matches were from my mom’s side. But there was one close match that didn’t show up in my mom’s tree—someone who could be a sibling of my donor. I reached out twice, but got no response. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’d do if I got one. I’m left with nothing but the realization that hope can be more painful than just accepting things as they are.
