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Our DNA Doesnt Match

by Emily Thorne

The daughter of an alcoholic, I yearned for paternal affection as a child. From the moment he

learned of my existence, my father cowered inside a bottle and turned increasingly angry and violent

toward my mother. He did not want a child.

My parents marriage deteriorated rapidly. By the time I was 2 years old, my mother filed for

divorce; that was not yet a mainstream occurrence in 1967s uppermost Midwest society. My fathers

addiction to alcohol had turned him into a virtual stranger to all who loved him. He was cruel, resentful,

and abusive when he was drinking. Over the years, I watched my mothers heart break time and again.

Despite everything, my mother wanted to do right by me, so she re-married my father when I was 3.

My mother divorced my father again when I was 7 years old, this time for good. The abuse was

more than our family could endure. We moved back to Moms hometown. When I saw my dad on the

occasional weekend, it was unusual for any of us to get along. He made genuine efforts to stop drinking,

but his dependence was too great he just couldnt sustain sobriety.

My mother started dating Wayne. I was 12 years old and remember well the first time he came to

our house to pick her up for a date. I didnt know what to expect, so I just watched him. Most men

would feel uncomfortable with a kid staring at him, but not Wayne. He smiled and started talking to me

the only thing I can remember about the conversation is thinking that this guy is nice, not creepy and I

hoped he was the one. Oh, and he was handsome, too.

He was, indeed, the one. A few months later, my mother married Wayne. My first impression of

Wayne was spot on. He loved my mother beyond measure in a healthy and respectful way. He treated

my sister and me as if we were his own, and that did not change one bit when my youngest sister came

along.

Wayne was what every father should be: kind, loving, disciplinary, fair, and honest. When I

stepped out of line, he had no qualms letting me know Id crossed a boundary. At the same time, I never

questioned his love for me. He tried not to interfere when my mom and I argued with my father and he

always comforted me afterward. In fact, he showed remarkable tolerance and self-control when my father

verbally attack him in a jealous, drunken rage. He was the ultimate referee while my mother and I had

our mother-daughter moments.

The step-parent jackpot is realized when the children from both sides of the new, blended

marriage are treated equally. My mother and Wayne insisted there would be no tolerance for preferential

treatment: his kids plus her kids equaled their kids, and they would be loved as such. That policy came at

a cost to Wayne. He had a daughter from a previous marriage who was just a few months younger than

me. He loved her dearly, but she had been negatively influenced by her mother. With his new marriage,

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Waynes daughter saw new opportunity to manipulate him into giving her new clothes and money. When

he refused (because he was not able to do the same forallhis children), she stopped contacting him;

eventually she would only call before a new school year and at Christmas. I empathized with Wayne; his

situation with his biological daughter was similar to mine, but the roles were reversed.

I loved and appreciated Wayne all the more. I both pitied and resented his daughter. She had a

wonderful father who loved and wantedher, but she cast him off because he wouldnt give her things.

The old saying one mans trash is anothers treasure has a poignant meaning to me. The treasure that

walked into my life in 1977 is priceless.

Through the years, I never doubted that Wayne thought of me as his daughter not once. Wayne

passed away three years ago. Looking back, I realize that I did not explicitly tell him how incredible he

was. I regret that. Our DNA didnt match, but he is my father.