acidicice

My Father?

I may have found him. I received a call last night with contact details and more information than I could have hoped for…although I was filled with questions that could only be answered by him.

How is my ouma? I would be so sad if she was not OK. I remember holidays with her and sweet things she did. I remember her black french poodle named Kiki who ate grapes. I remember how she knitted a new dress/outfit for my Barbie or Ken every day I was there on holiday. I remember picking strawberries from her back yard in Welkom every morning. I remember she gave me my first make up compact with lots of different colour eye shadows and two different colours of blush.
Where are my half brothers? To have siblings. What would that be like?
Are you happy?
I’m married now.
You are a grandfather. Well kind of.

Imagine being him. Imagine receiving the phone call. At night. Maybe having dinner with your family. Perhaps your wife answered the phone. Did she ask who it is? What would I say?

Hi, are you George James? Yes
Is your mother Wilana De Vries? Yes
This is your daughter. First born as far as I know.

Can you imagine the feeling? His heart starts racing (mine already is), his blood might run cold from the shock. What do you say then? I just called to say hi? I don’t want anything from you. I just want to talk? Does that sound logical?

I want to know you.

I struggled to fall asleep again after the phone call (don’t worry, not your fault). A million thoughts running through my head. A million conversation scenarios that all stopped after ‘I’m your daughter’. I don’t say ‘Remember me?’ because he does. Of course he does.

Part of me wanted to call immediately. Another part never wants to call. I sound like a gremlin on the phone now anyway. Got get better first I guess.

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