This is part of my story, my family history. It was published in “Chicken Soup for the Soul — All in the Family” in October 2009.

The first letter arrived a few weeks before Christmas. My heart stopped when I saw the return address. I was pleased but apprehensive. I dropped the rest of the mail on the counter and sat down at the kitchen table.

I had written to ask him for family medical history. The reply was long. It had the information I had requested and then some. It explained a little of my past, but kept me at arm’s length. I re-read it a few times, then wept and set it aside.

Life goes on; many things sit and collect dust in the back of one’s mind. A year later, an unexpected Christmas card with a family photo arrived from his wife. She said he was busy working out of town but he would write soon.

I studied the picture. Immediately, I knew where my looks came from. I really didn’t bear much resemblance to my mother’s side of the family, but here was a man staring back at me who looked familiar in so many ways.

He had a grown son and daughter — a family of his own who looked so happy together. They wanted to get to know me. Asked if I could send a picture of my family. I wasn’t sure. Did I have the courage to go forward?

A mere week later, my aunt reminded me, “When one door closes, another opens.” I hadn’t thought of it in that way. My mom had just died. My aunt encouraged me to write back.

The reply came in February. As I read his letter, my eyes misted over. He would be in Manitoba in March. Could he and his wife stop by to see us? After almost thirty years of absence, he wanted to meet me.

Excitement, happiness, fear, and sadness washed over me all at once. My toddler wanted to know why I was crying. Not wanting to worry him, I replied, “It’s okay. They’re happy tears.” To be truthful, I had no idea what those tears represented.

I was only two years old when they divorced. Hard as I had tried over the years, I had no memory of him. Divorce laws weren’t necessarily fair in the 1960’s. My mother did not allow any contact — no cards or letters, no phone calls, no pictures, no visits. Gifts he mailed were returned. He did not want to make a bad situation worse, so reluctantly agreed to stay away. An unselfish act in his eyes. Living two provinces away did not help.

When my mother remarried in 1966, she changed her surname, but I still retained my father’s last name. So growing up, I always knew of his existence. When you are young, you accept your life as it is. It was not until I had children of my own that I really began to question my parents’ decisions. How could have they thought this best? It was likely complicated, but no one ever offered an in-depth explanation.

Now, here I was a parent myself, feeling very much like a child all over again. I had a month to pull myself together, a month of waiting and wondering. It wasn’t as though I wouldn’t be busy. I had a two-year-old son and a newborn daughter. The end of March would be here before I knew it.

Then panic set in. Would I be ready? How would I look? How would I feel? He was coming to Manitoba in March…what if it stormed? Our farmyard always looks so bleak and unkempt that time of year. Would he get lost trying to find our place in the country? Would I have the house clean enough? Would he think I was a good parent? What if he didn’t like me? Would they stay for lunch? What would I cook for two people I didn’t know? Was this really a good idea? I was reeling. I needed to breathe…three deep breaths in and out. It wasn’t working so I tried again, slower this time. Don’t worry, I told myself. It will be fine. I needed to calm down, but couldn’t shake the anxiety and fear.

The days and weeks slipped by, and March 23rd arrived. The weather cooperated. The roads were fine. Our son and baby daughter had slept well and looked sweet and innocent. I, on the other hand, looked tired and nervous.

We watched and waited. A car pulled into the yard. They got out, opened the doors to the back seat and pulled out gift bags. They had brought presents. I had nothing for them. Lunch alone would have to do.

They saw us in the window, smiled and walked to the door. I welcomed them into our home. He put down the bags he was carrying and came up the three stairs toward me. Then the unexpected.

He reached out and hugged me. It was a big bear hug filled with emotion. It spoke volumes. I have never been hugged like that before or since. The hug said, “I’m sorry.” It conveyed, “I’ve missed you. I’m happy to see you.” It expressed, “I love you.” It made up for every missed birthday and Christmas. It explained, “I wish I had been there for all your firsts, for every accomplishment, and for every time you needed a shoulder to cry on.”

I didn’t want to let go, and it seemed he didn’t either. The hug replaced my worries with comfort. Words were not needed after all, but introductions were, and so the hug ended. It was time to relax and visit. We had a lot of catching up to do.

We visited again that summer in Alberta, then continued to call occassionaly and exchange letters. Over his time communication dwindled. His last letter to me was in November 1998. We tried to connect for a visit in 1999, but it didn’t work out. I never saw him again. He died on June 22, 2001.