Just before the end of his life I showed my father a DNA paternity test that convinced him that I am without question his child. Anyone looking at our hands or personalities would have known this. In fact, throughout my life people had commented that they could see the similarities in our personalities, both a good and a bad thing in that steady thought processes are good, too much natural reticence is bad. Still, throughout my life when I addressed my father as “Father” because that is who he was to me, he would snap at me, “Don’t call me that.” I attributed it to his being sensitive to the word itself, because he was the child of a single mother who had only vague claims to having been married to a man whom no one had ever seen. So I unhappily called my father “Dad”, which was an informality I did not like. When my father saw the DNA paternity test results he was overcome with emotion, and during the remainder of his life he made every effort to assure me of his father’s love for me. At least I have that.
Caption: The Missing Part
by Annmarie Throckmorton 2018