Will the Real Dad Please Stand Up?

Some of you already know the story, but for those who don’t . . .

In October 2013, two years after my father passed away, I found out that the man who I’d always called, “Dad” was not my biological father.  My biological father was a man who my dad had been close friends with for many years; in fact, our families lived in the same neighborhood and spent a great deal of time at each other’s homes.  Apparently, my dad could not father children, so he and my mom had adopted my older brother and sister before I came along.  They always told me I was a miracle . . . that they thought they could not conceive, but then, miraculously (haha), my mom turned up pregnant.  I’ve told this story before, and besides, that’s not why I’m here today; I’m here to talk about my dad—my real dad.

My real dad’s name was George.  He was an alcoholic, but thankfully, he got sober when I was 15.  He and my mom divorced when I was five, but he religiously showed up on his weekends to pick us up.  He took us to Busch Gardens, we accompanied him to his annual work picnic every year, and he took us to Nags Head for a week every summer.  George was the man who, after my mom died, kept my sister and I housed, clothed and fed.  He was the one who sometimes yelled too often, but did his best at raising two wild teenage girls (poor guy).  When I graduated high school, he was the one who paid for my college education (well, the first stint, anyway), and because he thought I wrote well, was disappointed when I chose to major in psychology instead of journalism.  Years later, when I had (finally) gone back to school and got my degree, his face beamed with pride on the day I walked for graduation; I promise you . . . there was not a prouder soul in the building that day.

My dad loved his grandchildren, and was especially close to my niece, Ashley, who absolutely adored her Papa.  When my son was huge into Harry Potter, my dad made a wand for him to use with his Halloween costume, and when my son took piano lessons, Dad made him a piano bench with his name on it.  When something broke at my house, guess who showed up and fixed it?  When I had a problem, it was him I could always rely on.  And when it became clear that I was an alcoholic, it was Dad who, having been there, worried the most.

After I had my son and moved into my own place, I lived in the same neighborhood as my biological father (I didn’t know that he was my father at the time), and even rode with him to his son’s (who is actually my half-brother) church a couple of times.  I liked my biological father, and we got along well, but he was just my dad’s long-time friend, and my neighbor.  He passed away years before my father did.

There has never and will never be a time when I think of George as anything other than “Dad”.  Naturally, I’m grateful to my biological father because he’s why I’m here today, but from the minute my dad knew my mom was pregnant, there was no question in his mind as to who my dad would be.

There are many men who father children and stick around to raise them—hats off to them.  But there are also men who have no genetic ties to a child yet happily take on the role of a dad.  Those men, who step up, giving support, encouragement, and love when a child’s biological father isn’t present, may not be dads in the genetic sense of the word, but they’re dads in every other sense.

A real dad is the one whose face beams with pride when his son graduates.  He’s the one who will walk his daughter down the aisle and give her away on her wedding day, and who will make his grandson a fishing pole and then take him fishing at a secret fishing hole that only granddad knows about.  And he’s the one who should rise confidently from his seat when someone asks, “Will the real dad please stand up?” . . .

Because DNA doesn’t define a “real” dad–love does.