Last night, I found out my biological father died this week. No way to sugarcoat that information, really. I hadn’t spoken to the man in nearly 18 years, not for lack of trying. I sought him out time and time again, wanting to have a relationship with him, no matter how small it was. I put myself out there and gave it my all to try and be a son to a man who didn’t want to be my father. I’ve never gotten to share my accomplishments, my sadnesses, my truths, and myself with the man whose DNA I share. I might never have even known he was gone because of these decisions on his part.

I am forever grateful to the cousin who made sure I knew, also. A lifetime of potential memories gone. A lifetime spent wondering why I wasn’t good enough, if there was something wrong with me, if I would ever even know why he wanted nothing to do with me. Now I guess I will never know the answers.

I think that is the strangest part of the whole thing for me. I have thought about going to the last place I knew he lived and seeking him out, or pushing harder to find the relatives on that side of the family that are still alive (which, according to his obituary – in which my name is not even correct, I might add – is nearly everyone except his father), but ultimately have chosen against it. For the last few years, I honestly didn’t even know if he was still alive, with Covid running rampant as it did. Until his brother found me on Facebook last year and at least confirmed that much for me, that is.

Even until I got the obituary and saw the face of the man I barely remember looking back at me, some part of me said my cousin must be mistaken. But there it was. The first line in the obituary read that he died with his daughter by his side. A daughter I’ve never met. Not a biological sibling, I know now, but nonetheless, someone who mattered enough to him for him to raise. To stick by. To live for. Someone I never even knew existed. Did she know about me?

Did he ever mention me? Could she hold the answers to why she got a father figure out of him and I never did? Do I even want to ask?

Those questions and more have been flooding my mind for the last 16 or so hours, and I am no closer to deciding if they are even worth asking. I have a whole side of my family whom I know nothing about. My father’s obituary said he loved God, loved to cook, was a great dad. Two out three ain’t bad… we have those in common at least. Is there anything else we share?

There is a service for Scotty Wayne Osbourne on Monday. A time for those who knew him to grieve him, to say goodbye to him, to pay their respects for a man they now have to build a life without. Do I fit that mold? I know next to nothing about him. I only know life without him in it. But I’ve never gotten to say goodbye. I never knew I would have to. Until it was too late. Just like this time.