Growing up, I had everything a child could need, and most things that I wanted. I had a great Mom, a wonderful big brother, and a singularly amazing father. My Dad was the greatest, he worked hard everyday of the week to make sure that my mother, my brother and I were taken care of. When he wasn’t working, he was spending time with us. He took the time, in the middle of his busy schedule, to play with us, come to our softball games, my dance recitals. He took us on hunting trips, fishing expeditions, four-wheeling and a ton of other things that I took for granted then.

When I was 10 years old, I discovered something that a part of me had always known; my dad was not my father. My mother told me in secrecy the story of my biological father (who I refer to as my donor). She told me of the abuse she suffered at his hands, of her narrow escape from him when I was just a baby, his vow to find me and take me away from her; and the lengths she’d gone to keep me safe from him. The details of the story were heart breaking and when it was over my mother asked me to make a decision that no child should ever have to make. She asked me to act like nothing had changed, to continue to love my Dad the way I always had. I didn’t even have to consider it, I would unquestioningly continue to be my father’s daughter. I was wrong, however, to think that I could act as if nothing changed, it most certainly had.

I began to see my Dad in a whole new light. Here was a man with no legal or biological obligation to care for me, yet he did. He provided for me, he loved me, he sacrificed for me, he put up with my screaming friends every time I had a sleepover. I no longer took for granted the little things, I appreciated it all more than ever.

When he and my mother divorced, he didn’t divorce me. When my mom remarried, he didn’t stop being my dad. At fifteen I had my name legally changed to Bialas and I never gave more than a passing thought to the man that had a hand in creating me, so to speak. I grew up, grew strong, started a new chapter of my life in California, and my dad, Billy Bialas, remained a constant part of it. He still is today.

Six months ago, I faced yet again, a difficult decision. Better equipped to handle the choice but still not quite ready to face it. My donor, Mike, contacted my grandparents in an attempt to find me. They gave me his phone number and a bit of information to heighten my curiosity. As it was, his health was fading and he had something to give me. I held onto the number for a week before I ever got up enough nerve to make the call. Actually, it wasn’t the nerve I was lacking to begin with. More appropriately, my curiosity piqued and I had to know what this man wanted now, more than twenty years later. The conversation was a short one, I volunteered little information about myself, most of what I did tell him was less than the truth. I didn’t trust him. Eventually he sent me a substantial amount of money. As a college student, struggling to make ends meet, it was easy to accept his generosity. Many people, my mother for example, believe that it’s no so much generosity as him giving what is owed to me. I feel that the only way he could owe me anything was if I felt that he did. The only way that I’d feel he owed me was if I felt that I’d missed out on something by not having him in my life, and I didn’t. I missed out on nothing. I accepted the money he offered me without hesitation. I even took him up on the trip he agreed to pay for to meet him and the rest of my estranged family.

The trip was a great success. I flew to Alabama, in the beginning of December, rented a car and took one of the all expenses paid days to visit my friend; a bonus for me. I met my brothers and sisters; cousins, nieces, nephews, all of whom I loved instantly. Mike was a different story. I accepted him as a troubled child might accept a step father they perceived to be trying to take over the role of Dad. I still didn’t trust him, and I didn’t like how he assumed that I would consider him my father. It made me uncomfortable every time he referred to me as “his”, I almost cringed when he said “You’re home now.” For three days I was itching to get in my ugly rental car and drive away, preferably back to the comfort and familiarity of my friend in Alabama. Despite the strong desire to run away, I stayed.

When I left it was with a deep satisfaction. The satisfaction stemmed not only from finally meeting the family I’d never known, but from showing my donor the strong, independent woman that I became with no help from him. If I gained anything from the trip, aside from getting to know the other other side of my family and the fifteen hundred dollars given to me as a Christmas present, it was the reaffirmation of who my Dad really is.

My Dad with my little brother Brayden

He is not the man who in the last 6 months has given me more money than I make in a year in a futile attempt to make up for the twenty years of my life he missed. He’s not the man whose DNA contributed to my biology. My Dad is the man who has been present in my life as far back as I can remember. The one who accepted the difficult responsibility of raising a girl as his own daughter. He’s the man I’ve been able to count on for any and everything for the last 20 years. There is nothing I could do in my life to repay him for everything that he’s already done for me, but he’s my Dad and nothing could ever change how much I love him.