It is not everyday that you have a major life revelation, something that stitches some theories into the facts column of your memories, forever cementing but also altering your life. Last night, my mom sat myself, my brother, and my husband down to “talk about something for an hour” she said. Three hours later, we had learned that:

• My father was married a very long time ago to a first wife, sometime around 1965
• My father and his wife had twin boys who were born on 7 January 1967
• My father’s first wife “couldn’t cope” with raising twins (on her own? with an unhelpful husband who “worked alot”? with perhaps post-partum depression that was undiagnosed?), so she moved back in with her mother and
• They never spoke again

My dad’s family, who knew his first wife, who had been to his wedding, and who knew his twin sons, were asked to honor the request of no contact, which they did for 54 years, until a few weeks ago when my aunt told my mom she knew something but she also knew it would be hurtful. My mom asked her to tell her, regardless, and here we are.

For years I have wondered what precipitating event caused my father to lose contact with his family, for after this, he barely spoke to them for 15 years. In fact, my aunt didn’t even know that I was born in England, one hour or less away from where she had her second daughter, born one month before me.

In 2017, I went to England for my cousin Sally’s wedding in the Lake District. It was beautiful and I can’t wait to go there again. Whilst driving through London with Aunt #1, I asked her, “did something happen between my dad and his parents? Like an argument? Did he do something to disappoint them or something? And that’s why you all stopped talking?” She said, “It is not my story to tell. You have to ask your father.” Whilst walking through a town in the Lakes with Aunt #2, I asked her the same question, and she gave me the same answer.

In 2009, when I was getting divorced from my first husband, my parents came to see me. I was confused as we weren’t especially close at the time. Now, looking back on it, I suspect my dad felt that me going through a divorce would be very difficult. I know my mom was worried about me, but she said that they felt I was handling everything very well (later writings will go into how good of an actress I am – Oscar caliber). In my laundry room, my mom let slip that my dad had been married before and that “divorce isn’t that hard, eh Michael?”. This is when I learned he had been married before for about 5-6 years. When I asked him why he had never said this before, he said he didn’t think it was important. I asked him, “what, are you going to tell me that we have half brothers or sisters somewhere?” he said a definite “No.” He lied.

Why did he lie? To me? To my mom? To my brother? What happened and why?

Tragically, his first wife (first and second wives were both named Susan, oddly), died about one year after he did, in 2022. He was born in 1939, she in 1943. He died in 2021, she in 2022. He had his twins when he was 28 years old. I cannot even imagine what my dad was like/looked like/acted like when he was 28. My husband had his son when he was 26 and I remember what he looked like: an adultish person.

Thankfully, all of my dad’s siblings have told us we can ask them anything now that the cat is out of the bag. But sadly, both people involved are dead. Strangely, she kept Blythe as her last name all these years, as have done the boys. Why? If it was such a split, wouldn’t it make sense to change names or……….something.

Did he ever pay her any money to help raise them? Were they ever in contact? Why did the split even happen in the first place? Apparently my grandmother took care of the twins when she could. She always loved babies and was great with children. She also had to live with this condition of giving up her first two grandchildren, and, her daughters say, fought it until my granddad insisted. I cannot imagine how painful that must have been for her, for him, for his first wife. It just seems like so much pain, and I will never know the reason why, probably.

When I asked my dear Uncle Denys why this happened, why we left the UK and our entire family, when we were having tea after Sally’s wedding, he said, “it was a different time”. Maybe it was? What does that mean? Did he know?

This opens up so many questions. Is this the reason that we moved to the States, so that he would never have to deal with it? It seems so. Why did he never tell my mom? Why did she never insist on meeting his family before they were married?

Because, oh yes, my mom never pushed on meeting his family. He said they didn’t want to meet her, and she accepted that, despite that his 5 brothers and sisters would have loved to meet her, and did, about 15 years after his first divorce, when he was married to his third wife and living in Houston, Texas.

I have written about this here before, but sometime around 1970 my dad lost touch with his family and regained contact with them around 1985, after we had emigrated to the United States. My granddad was ill with progressive health problems, and we came to England and met the family for the first time. The aunt who orchestrated this meeting is the same that spilled the beans to my mom two weeks ago, She is truly amazing and a creature of love and acceptance. I love her so much. After the first English meeting, my grandparents came to Texas and saw us there. My granddad died very soon thereafter, in 1989, of cancer and heart problems. He had been a nuclear chemist and the exposure to chemicals damaged his body. My grandmother was diagnosed with cancer in the 1960s, looked around at her 6 children and her scientist husband who didn’t pay bills but knew how to (mostly) build an atom bomb, and said to her doctor, “I can’t die!” and didn’t until 1994.

What is bothering me so much about this story is the lie at the center of it; a lie that, to me, is wholly unnecessary. Why would he leave behind his children? What about his wife? Did he love her? Did she break his heart? Did he break hers? Yes, yes, and yes? We could have had two older brothers. (We think we have found them. One looks just like him, with eyes just like me and my brother’s. The other looks like my granddad, to a T. Round, bald head, round nose, nice smile.)

28. When I was 28, I was getting divorced from my first husband. I owned a house in Austin. Did he own a house in England? He always told me he sold his boat to buy his first house with my mom. Is that true? The trick of this lie is that the two people who were really involved are now dead.

This experience, which right now is only 24 hours old, has taught me that is never worth it to lie. Never. What would have happened if he had just told my mom about all of this, like we would all expect to have happen between two people committing to each other in marriage? Would anything have changed? Only one, to be certain. The lie wouldn’t have been there. My uncle used to stay with them, he says. My grandmother helped with the babies. My aunt was living with my grandparents when they split and she remembers everything.

My dad was always best in a group, at a party. In person, he was very challenging. He was avoidant, afraid of commitment, and angry. When he was confronted, he became so angry that he was scary. I suppose that guaranteed that no one would get close. He drank to excess, creating health problems for himself and his family. He died three years ago, and during the last year of his life, became very emotional. He cried alot. He said to me once, “I used to be a great man” or something similar. I told him, “you ARE a great man, Daddy”. Despite talking to my brother and I a lot over those last two months especially, and we did talk, a lot, he never told us about this. Was this his wound? Was it the reason that everything else happened? It seems so. By avoiding three people, or perhaps four (apparently my dad’s first wife’s mom did not like him and did not want them to get married), he dragged in 5 brothers and sisters and their partners, his second wife, friends(?), my mom, my brother and me. All drawn into a web of sadness that was never soothed or understood, just forgiven, because that is what you do when people die.

This is just the first time I will write about this. I had to get something down, some sort of recording of how it feels to know an answer, perhaps the answer, to the question that I have been asking about my father for years. I knew something had happened. I thought it was something in Vietnam. Right now I don’t even know if he was ever there. I don’t know very much about him at all. Today, I feel like I know more and less, good and bad. My takeaway from 43 years on the planet is that it is both/and yes/no good/bad all the time, together. They are mixed, hand-in-hand, like dough, chocolate, or clay.

In some ways, it feels like a circle has been closed, soldered shut with fire and time and communication, finally. I wish I could hug my dad and tell him I am so sorry that he felt that this was the best decision he could make at that time, and I also feel like shaking my dad by the shoulders and shouting, “WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK?”. It is both. I understand the sadness and shame, but the lie? The behavior? My brother and I hope to reach our brothers and we hope that they want to speak with us. Beyond that, no expectations. Goddammit, Daddy.

p.s. I hope you know the reference in the title today. I think it is the appropriate spell for today. I wish I could shout it at my dad.