Frank’s Sinatra Jr’s first son — The Truth

My name is Francis Wayne Sinatra. My father was Frank Sinatra Jr. You’ve probably never heard of me. I was born in Los Angeles in 1978 after my mother became pregnant after dating my father for around 8 months. My father was never a part of my life, even after I made several attempts at it. Even after he told my mother that he wanted me to be named after him.

My mother had blood tests done when I was a baby, after my father decided to avoid the two of us, which showed a 99% probability at him being my father. When I was around 13, I sued my father as a minor for paternity and child support. We were willing to go all the way this time. Blood tests, spinal DNA tests, whatever tests needed to be taken in order to prove that this man was my father. I have always been open to that and still am today. It turned out that we didn’t need to go that far. In a family court on Long Island, he admitted paternity and told the court that he was not going to fight us any longer. We had won.

Except, as it turns out, we hadn’t. Every question he was asked about me was answered with a denial. I found out around that time that he had had another son named Michael that he acknowledged. So that was his answer from then on. He only had one child, one son, named Michael Francis Sinatra. But we knew differently. The Family Court of New York knew differently. The lab that processed my blood tests knew differently.

I have to admit that that hurt more than anything. Finally getting legal acknowledgment and then having my father continue to deny me. I also knew that I had a half-sister on his side named Francine. Francine and I had been close when we were children but drifted apart in later years. She had some luck talking to our father and developing a friendly relationship with him. So when I was 19 years old, I decided that it was high time I got to talk to the person that helped put me on this planet. I showed up at a dinner performance that he was giving in Newport Beach and watched his show. Then I approached him when he was finished. He looked at me confusedly and asked how I was doing before he turned around and walked out on me. My heart was broken. Why did that approach work for Francine and not for me?

I ended up pressing the issue and calling his various offices until he finally called me back one morning and spoke to me for about 45 minutes. He told me how we were strangers for two decades and shouldn’t be friends now. He told me how he made a mistake and I was born by accident. He told me he could never be proud of me because he didn’t know me. He just didn’t get the point of me contacting him. I know how hard his life must’ve been in the shadow of his famous father. I tried to get him to understand how much harder it was for me, considering he was always denying that I was his son.

After the phone call ended, I knew he had wiped his hands of me. I tried to make the best of it. I had an amazing family on my mother’s side that fully supported me. I ended up developing friendships that have lasted for decades and those friends have had my back in any situation I’ve needed them for. I have grown in so many ways by dealing with this hand I’ve been dealt.

It’s been almost twenty years since that phone call, and I have left him alone. I tried contacting Michael once but he decided he didn’t want to hear what I had to say and blocked me from contacting him again. I’ve had moments of self doubt, resentment, bitterness and rage. I’ve had moments of hope where I thought if I contacted him again, he might be more open. I even thought one day my phone might ring and it would be him, maybe apologizing or wanting to meet up for lunch and exchange life stories. But that never happened.

So why did my father continue to deny me until his death? Why did his other son Michael decide to shut me out of his life after I contacted him? Why was I named Francis after my father and still denied, while his other son was named Michael? Why is my half-sister Francine not acknowledged after becoming somewhat close to him and even attending family functions? I will never know. Any opportunity to get to know the man is now gone.

Even after everything that my father never did for me, his death hurts. I may not have known him, I may not have known his friends or his close family members, but he was still my father.

So, rest in peace and I’m sorry you never got to know the man that I turned to be.