by Christopher Mcphail

Created on: January 07, 2009

What makes a father? Is it purely the biological connection, or is it the more then that, is it just simply raising a child and being the male role model? These are questions I have asked myself numerous times over the course of my life, sometimes in moments of fear, and sometimes in moments of awe. I have yet to find an answer, and I wonder if I ever will. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /

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I was almost six years old when my mother married my father, and at the time I don't imagine that it made much sense to me that we had different last names, I didn't even make the connection that he wasn't really my father, I was just happy to finally have the complete family that my friends all had, I finally felt like I had purpose. It wasn't easy in the beginning, for my mother, my father or for me. It was a clash of three lives, head-on, and it wasn't what any of us were expecting, but we did manage to forge out a tolerable relationship, even though, to this day, I know I was never accepted as my father's son. My parents were married for almost six years before I took his last name, before I was adopted. I had always believed, that he was my real father, and that I had a different last name, simply because when I was born he wasn't ready for the responsibility, I tried to rationalize it any way I could. When my parents approached me about being adopted I jumped at the opportunity, here was my chance to finally become a legitimate member of the family, with the same last name as my parents, and didn't think twice about it. It was only years later I fully understood why I was being offered this opportunity, because my mother was pregnant. Soon I would have a new brother or sister, and once again, it would emphasize the odd man out, so they were doing it more for my psyche then for any other reason. I didn't care either way, it wasn't important to me as to the why, only that it was happening. My father was finally accepting me, at least that is what I believed, or wanted to believe.

The years passed, another child was added to the family, giving me two wonderful brothers, and the tension grew, as I grew up. Something just didn't feel right to me, I felt like I didn't fit, and that I never would. I always felt like a piece of me was missing, a vital piece of what made me, me. I rebelled, I fought, and I questioned. I questioned everything, frantically searching for answers, pleading for them, only to receive lie after lie. At

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