I come from a huge extended family. My mom was one of five, her mom was one of five and it continues to multiply from there. I have more family than I could ever want or need, but they are all on my mom’s side. I’ve never known anyone from my dad’s side.
My parents are happily married. My dad is very much a part of my life and always has been. His parents both passed away before I was born. My unique middle name, Sima, was his mom’s name. When he does talk about his mother, it’s always affectionately. I know that he had a father who wasn’t around much and then left, and that he then had a stepfather.
He has a younger brother who lives a few towns over from us. I met him once when I was very young but have no recollection of it. He sent me cards on my birthday until I was maybe seven or eight. My mom used to let me write him letters asking him to come to my parties, even though I think she knew he wouldn’t. I think I overheard once that something happened between my dad and him when their mom died, but I can’t say for certain.
One time I saw a photo of myself, maybe three- or four-years-old, with three other girls about the same age. My mom told me they were my cousins on my dad’s side.
That’s everything I know about my dad’s family.
And then last week, over Thanksgiving dinner, my mom told our family friend that she and my dad were going to a funeral for his aunt the next day. She never mentioned it directly to me or my brother. When they came home from the funeral, she came into my room and said happily, “All of your cousins were asking about you!”
I felt like I was punched in the stomach. Why were they acting like seeing my dad’s family was such a casual thing? How do my cousins even know to ask about me? Why didn’t they ask if my brother and I wanted to go? Is there even a good reason that this side of my family has been kept from me?
I stole the prayer card from the funeral and Googled the name of the woman, my great aunt. Her last name and her maiden name were ones I had never heard before. I think she was my grandmother’s sister. She lived in the Bronx, no more than 20 minutes from my house. I wanted to know everything about her, but I didn’t know how to ask.
To be honest, there are so many questions I should have asked my parents a long time ago. Part of me has never had the courage, and another part of me has never felt like I had the right. These people are so foreign to me, they don’t feel like my family. I don’t feel entitled to them. Lately though, and maybe this is just a symptom of getting older, I’ve become more interested. I hope that I can find the right words and the right moment to ask.
I’ve always assumed there was some horrible, unforgivable incident that tore him apart from his loved ones that he could never speak of. But I’m starting to think that there is no big secret at all; that they just fell away from each other and didn’t know how to repair it. I’m not sure which is worse, but I’m ready to find out the truth.
