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This a delicate subject with me. I am 44 years old, and the only thing close to a father that I have ever had, is my mothers second husband. This man passed away, when I was eight years old or younger. He was really, the natural birth father of my oldest brother, who is also now passed away. I had five brothers and one sister, I was raised with my brothers, and my sister was raised by her birth father, in another city all together. I and my five brothers lived and played together. It seems that each of us had a different father, but my mother treated and raised us like we all had the same father. Black families don't go through that step brother, step sister thing. We feel as long as all the children came from the same wound as far as the mother, that makes us all brothers and sisters. When I started growing up and reaching puberty, I started asking my mother questions about my father. I would study my birth certificate relentlessly, looking for clues.

At first, my mother was cool with the questions about my father, until I told her, I wanted to meet him. My mother told me, that she did not understand why, I wanted to know anything about my father, because she is the one, who had taken care of me, all my life. So she gave me a city name, and so I started to look for his name in the directory for that city and state. After accumulating all the could be prospects, I began to write letters to all the men, thinking one of them could be my father. All of the letters that were answered, turned out not to be my father. The letters were so sincere, so many of them said, that they wished they were my father. It was a very painful situation for me, as a young girl. After that experience I gave up on it. Okay lets fast forward to 1998, I am 36 years old. I am on my on now, and raising four sons by myself, as a single mother. Life was going pretty good, for me and my boys. One day, a family friend called me, and told me that my father was looking for me. Mind you, I have not seen or spoken to this woman since, I was a very young girl. When she said that to me, my heart jumped, and I had this very nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. My Aunt Sue asked me if she could give him my phone number, so he could reach me.

It turned out that the man, who was named as my father on my birth certificate, and who's name I had been carrying on, was not my father. My real father it turns out, is a minister, who had also made a name for himself as

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