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This may very well be the last time you read me writing about my father.

Each year in June, the world (except for Australia)* celebrates Father’s Day. It’s an ambiguous celebration for me because, as you know, I didn’t grow up with a dad.

Earlier this year, I found out through my mom, who found out through common friends that my father passed away. It could be that he’s been dead for a few years now but we’ve yet to confirm that. I was talking to my mom casually over the phone when she said, something along the lines of, “Guess what?! I found out that your father passed away…” I didn’t really hear the rest of what she said because all of a sudden everything just went blank. Look, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sad. But I’m not sad for the reasons most of you might be thinking. I wasn’t sad because I’d never get to meet the person who gave me half of my chromosomes. I wasn’t sad that I never got to tell him, “Umm, thanks for the genes.” I wasn’t sad because I needed to connect with him. I was sad because the decision not to meet him had been taken away from me. I guess, up until that point, I imagined that one day I’d change my mind and ask my mom to set up a meeting. I feel sad that that decision has been made for me before I could definitively say: Yeah, I’m good. Don’t need to meet him.

Having said that, in the off-chance that maybe the rumor was false and he was still alive, I still wouldn’t suddenly scramble at the chance to come face-to-face with him. Although, observing his mannerisms would have been cool too. From a purely scientific perspective, it would be fascinating to see if I inherited any traits from him purely through genetics, having no interaction with him at all. I guess now, I’d have to be content with a photo or two. I’d be curious to see if we had any resemblance at all.

There, I said it. Happy father’s day, dad, wherever you are.

*Australia celebrates Father’s Day in September.

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