'We became drinking buddies, who shared some DNA.' The joy and sadness of finding my real dad.

I was 15 years old when my mum sat tearful in my nan’s kitchen and told me that the man I’d called ‘Dad’ my entire life wasn’t really my biological father. The words hung in the air, indigestible. 

My nan jumped up to pop the kettle on. Peak Britain, right there. Nothing that can’t be fixed with a nice cup of tea.

I couldn’t tell you the exact details of what I said, or how I felt immediately after. A psychologist would probably have an eloquent explanation, but I find a lot of my childhood memories slip away as I go to grab them, the way colour fades from a picture.

That, or I remember something as though I observed it from afar. Like watching a movie of my own life - a passive viewer, quietly accessing traumatic experiences from a more comfortable place. It’s not a ‘normal’ way to recall things. It feels like a perspective I shouldn’t have. So I second guess my 'memories' a lot. Perhaps they were just nightmares.

Watch: Mary Coustas on the pain of losing her father. Post continues below.

At some point, though, I settled on feelings of vindication and relief. My entire childhood never felt quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. I just had this sense that things didn’t fit together the way they should, and at last, it all made sense.

There was also some lightness in knowing that never again would I have to wonder why my 'dad' - someone who was supposed to be biologically programmed to love me - could treat me the way he had. A violent alcoholic, there was not one door in our house that didn’t have holes in it.

Then came the absolute mindf**k of even having a 'real dad'. In my opinion, being a dad has very little to do with biology and absolutely everything to do with the act of fathering. So by this measure, I was irrefutably fatherless. 

My lived experience of one ‘dad’ hadn’t instilled much eagerness to seek out another, so for a brief period I sat content in the decision to not look for him. Besides, having been conceived in what I now knew was essentially a one-night-stand, I didn't fancy my chances, anyway.

But then I pictured myself older, perhaps wanting to know more, but having left it too late to happen. I’d been through enough hardship in life that the possibility of rejection paled in comparison. Better to try to find him, and fail or be shunned, than rob myself of the chance to ever find him at all.

Given my mum only knew his first name and an approximate spelling of his last, a private investigator seemed to be the smartest thing. I found one through an internet search engine, transferred a few hundred pounds, then heard nothing. For months.

He finally emailed, but with bittersweet news. He hadn’t found my dad, but he did locate his two adult children, and provided a mobile number for one. 

He felt closer, but still so far away. 

What if his children (whose mother he had been married to while he was off making me) hated me, based on the circumstances, and refused to make an introduction? It took about a week to steel myself to make this undeniably difficult phone call — to the half-sibling who probably didn’t even know I existed, and ‘gate kept’ the access to my dad.

The first time I spoke to my half-brother I immediately registered his accent. For a tiny country, England has accents aplenty, and despite growing up only 45 minutes away from each other, there was stark contrast. 

Fortunately, he knew of my existence, and also — that of an additional half-sibling. A month or two younger than I was, nobody had seen or heard from him throughout his life, either. 

I met with my dad’s two children, their partners, and their own children at an upmarket restaurant in London. “F**k you look like him” was the first thing they said. We chatted a little about our lives, and as we parted ways they gave me a piece of paper with his number scratched onto it. 

At this point I was well versed in doing difficult things. Having just sat down with six brand new people, one dad didn’t seem that daunting. 

Let’s f**king do this.

I thought he sounded like a rough cockney geezer. He told me I sounded ‘posh’. Not well-raised by any definition, I explained that I really wasn’t, and it was likely just nerves making me sound uptight. Once we hung up, I shook for the next hour — a physical manifestation of every feeling I’d battled to get to this point.

A week later we sat face-to-face over lunch, our shared flair for social situations eliminating the need to break any ice. Conversation flowed easily, and we even managed to crack jokes. He was tall, fair, funny. Just like me.

We were both committed to building a relationship, which for a while, we did — though in an unconventional way. It’s strange trying to fit into ‘father-daughter’ roles with someone who didn’t see you grow up, so we became drinking buddies, who shared some DNA.

There were wild nights out, but also wholesome, loving times too. The problem with letting people in, though, is it invariably exposes you to hurt.

Today, he has five-year-old grandchildren he’s never even met. We speak on the phone occasionally, text at Christmas and New Year, and try to remember each other's birthday. He’s still in England. I’ve moved to Sydney. The distance between us makes it seem unreasonable to expect more, and my ferociously guarded heart cautions whether I even should. 

I have a better grip on my own identity having found him, but I do believe two-parent families to be a construct. If society hadn’t lured my mother into believing that well-rounded children only came from homes with both a mum and dad, perhaps she would have felt more empowered to raise me solo. 

It goes without saying that I would have had a significantly happier childhood without a dad, but despite that, I wouldn’t change a thing. There’s a lot to be said for the resilience you get when you’re so very forged in the fire — a quality immensely useful as I navigate parenting alone.

I’m often asked if I’m angry with my mum, and no, I’m truly not. Admittedly, it would be easy — not angry about the choices she made, but rather the ones she didn’t. As a person who actively chose to leave a relationship so that my children weren’t raised amongst conflict, I have wondered why she didn’t do that for me. But perhaps by not leaving, she paved the way so that when it came to it, I could. 

As for my stepdad — I haven't seen or spoken to him in over 15 years. I don’t hate him, for that would be a tax on my energy — I simply pay him no mind. It’s pure, unadulterated indifference. Maybe it means I need more therapy, or maybe, just maybe, it means that armed with nothing but my own fortitude, I’ve managed to move on.

Carly Sophia is a writer, survivor and thriver, living in Sydney, with her five-year-old twins and three rescue dogs. She’s currently working on her first book, you can connect with her here.

Feature image: Carly Sophia.