Dear Father, Donor, David,
Hello. I am your daughter, offspring… I am Madeline. In many of these messages, the children thank their donors graciously for helping bring them into the world. Letters full of hope and questions, and so many ‘Thank you’s.’ So, thank you for the truly selfless act you committed. Thank you for simply jerking off into a white plastic cup. Thank you so much for getting paid for the same activities that adolescent boys perform every single day. I have nothing to thank you for. You are not kind or thoughtful. I have no reason to be grateful for your ‘gift’ that you have given me. I am not thankful to be your
daughter, offspring. I hate you Father, Donor, I hate you, David.
Before I knew about you Donor, I was sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s white pickup. We were driving home from town or school, I can’t remember the event that would have put only us in the truck together. My dad and I were so close when I was younger. I was the definition of ‘Daddy’s little girl.’ However, we had grown apart over the years. We still talk, of course, during dinner usually. We exchanged the familiar,
‘How was work?’
‘Get your school work finished?’
End of conversation.
In the truck, we were sitting in absolute silence. The only sound I could hear was the generic old 80s hits played on the stereo. I looked over at my dad, the cow fields that I had never seen a cow grazing in for the last decade were passing behind him.
I had never looked like my dad. He had a harsh farmer’s tan, hazel eyes, and a reddish beard (however, more gray and white hairs had been popping up). I had always looked like my mom. A carbon copy. Same thick brown hair, same gray-blue eyes, and same fair skin. Exactly the same. Every time I would meet one of my mom’s friends they would repeat the same phrase, ‘You know, you look exactly like your mother.’ By now I always reply in a light tone, ‘Really? I have never gotten that before!’ I have gotten the same comment a hundred times.
This one time I looked at my dad, I really looked at him. I tried to— I had to find what I got from him. Aha! I got the exact same nose. We had the same exact straight slope, somewhat short. It was an indistinctive feature on both of our faces. But I could tell that we both had the same indistinctive nose. It was hard to tell with my dad’s not so reddish anymore beard, but we had the same chin. I saw the same chin that I had recently gotten insecure about. My chin was round, but it jutted out harshly when looking at my profile. Even with the insecurity, all that mattered is that even though I look exactly like my mom, I finally figured out what I had gotten from my dad.
I was wrong. My chin and nose are not from my dad. Are they from you, Donor? Do we have the same nose and chin? I didn’t want anything from you Donor. I want to be my daddy’s little girl again. Not yours. I tried so desperately to find the similarities we shared, only for them to be stolen by you. I went searching, yearning to have something of my dad’s to find out that there was nothing that existed in the first place. I wanted to have my dad’s straight sloped nose and pointy chin. So please tell me I didn’t get your straight sloped nose and pointy chin. My nose and chin is foreign to me now. My connection to my dad has been stripped away. Please don’t take this connection away from us. It was all I wanted. It was all I could find. It was all I had. Please don’t steal it away from him, from your offspring.
I wish you were dead, David. I hoped you were dead actually. I prayed to the God I do not believe in that you were dead. Every night before bed I prayed, ‘God? If you are really out there, please let David be dead.’ By some miracle you would be dead, long before I had knowledge of your existence. I hoped that the only time that we would be able to meet was at your grave. I would have brought flowers, white lilies wrapped up in parchment, tied off with twine. I would have introduced myself to you, David. I would have sat by your tombstone while telling you about my life. I wouldn’t get the chance to meet you— to see your face, to talk to you properly. Would you have known who I was when I came to visit you? I would not allow myself to cry at your grave. I cannot allow myself to mourn the death of someone I did not know.
However, you are not dead, to my disappointment. If you were dead, I wouldn’t have had to worry. I could forget your existence because there was never that potential; the potential for you to know me or for me to know you. Or the worst version of the potential, you being angry. You being angry at me for contacting you. You being angry that I know who you are, that you can’t hide behind that anonymity that had hidden you for over two decades. You to be angry that now everyone around you knows. Would you be angry at me, Father?
I tell myself I don’t care about you, that I even hate you. I don’t know you. And you don’t know me. You could have the worst personality. You could be a bigot or a misogynist. You could be someone that talks too loud so much that I think everyone around us can hear our conversation. You could interrupt me constantly. I can’t quell my curiosity over you, Father. I want to not care. I truly do. I don’t want my curiosity in you to betray my own dad. I don’t want to make my presence known for the possibility of rejection from my own father. Yet, I can’t handle the pain and anxiety plaguing me to just sit around in the shadows waiting for you to come to me. So please, Father, Donor, David. I have nothing left to say. Have a nice life.