I had my first encounter with my father’s voice at the age of 14, a moment that occurred three years ago. There had been a CD sitting in my desk drawer for quite some time, but I couldn’t bring myself to play it. I would often hold the shiny disc, observing the faded black ink labeling it as the “Donor Interview,” and catch glimpses of my distorted reflection in the silver circle before setting it aside once more.
The knowledge that I didn’t have a father had always been with me, but the story behind it came from a picture book. During my preschool days, my mother read me a tale about children conceived through donors. In the story, a woman receives “magic seeds” from a kind man after dreaming of having a baby. I remember confusing this narrative with “Jack and the Beanstalk” due to the mention of magic seeds. The book concluded with an unexpected revelation: Surprise! You’re the baby!
Although I dreaded Father’s Day, particularly at school when we were instructed to create cards for our fathers, my teacher would always remind me in a hushed voice, “And you can make one for a special person in your life.”
I can’t quite explain what compelled me, after all those years, to finally play the CD on Father’s Day when I turned 14. But I did it anyway, and within seconds, the room was filled with the music of my identity. It was astonishing to hear that voice—it sounded just like mine. This man, a stranger to me yet existing within the depths of my genetic makeup, had recorded those words at the sperm bank for some child who happened to be his biological offspring.
On the CD, a woman from the sperm bank posed a question to my donor, asking, “What’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to you?” He proceeded to share a story about a comical hot dog mishap that made me burst into laughter. It turns out we shared the same sense of humor. When the woman asked about his favorite food, I guessed his answer before he even responded.
“A good steak,” he replied. I couldn’t help but smile. It was my favorite too.
There’s something strange about feeling the absence of someone you can’t even picture—a nameless ache. After all, it wasn’t a specific father I missed, but rather the idea of having one. However, it wasn’t until I encountered that CD that I realized I wasn’t simply missing a father; I was missing a piece of my own identity.
“What activities do you enjoy in your free time?” the woman asked my donor at the sperm bank. As he listed the sports I loved and expressed his fondness for poetry, I felt as though he were describing me.
Soon enough, through a Facebook group, I discovered that I had over 20 half-siblings who were all conceived from the same donor. One of these half-siblings managed to uncover our donor’s name, leading to the discovery of a yearbook photo. There he was, my biological father, and he looked just like me.
“When it comes to your own children, what kind of values do you want to instill in them?” the woman from the sperm bank inquired. My donor talked about resilience, self-confidence, and pursuing one’s passions. However, something he said made me pause the CD and replay that part. “I want them to feel whole,” he stated.
Before listening to the CD, I had worried that hearing my donor’s voice would intensify the sense of fatherly loss I already felt—and initially, it did. It had been easier to convince myself that I didn’t have a father until I heard his voice and saw his photo. At that moment, I thought to myself, “I guess I do have a dad.” I began daydreaming about all the things we could have done together—and maybe still could.
After all, he was out there, his email address just a quick Google search away. I pondered whether he would be proud of me, whether he would find me intelligent, funny, or intriguing. I imagined conversations about sports, books, and life, as well as what it would be like to walk through the world with a man who would make onlookers think, “They’re definitely father and son.”
But the more I contemplated reaching out to him, the more I considered his desire for his offspring to feel whole.
Every individual has a need to understand their origins and the influences that shape them into the person they become. Genetics play a role in our development, but no matter how much I learned about my donor, he still remained a stranger. All those things I had envisioned doing with my biological father were already happening with individuals who had truly molded me in more meaningful ways.
Hence, I made the decision not to contact my donor. It dawned on me that I had always had fathers all around me—dozens of them. There were teachers, coaches, other people’s dads, family friends, and my cherished grandfather.
In my case, these father figures form a collage of diverse personalities and perspectives, collectively providing more guidance and support than any individual father ever could. Biology may carry weight, but it’s the choice these men make to father me that truly matters.
Some coached my sports teams, offering guidance on relationships and teaching me essential skills like shaving and tying a tie. Others took me to museums and sports games, cracked awful Dad jokes, accompanied me through every “Star Wars” and Marvel movie, inquired about the books I read, swam far out into the ocean with me, helped me navigate major decisions, and provided undivided attention. They all valued my opinions, taught me to respect others, exhibited personal responsibility, and demonstrated that expressing emotions is crucial for a man—vulnerability is, in fact, a sign of strength.
I never could have imagined that Father’s Day would one day become one of my favorite holidays, yet in the three years since I played that CD, it has. The word “father” has transformed from a noun into a verb.
If I were transported back to my elementary school days to create a Father’s Day card today, here’s what it would say: “Happy Fathers’ Day (plural) to all the men in this world who step up to father.”
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