On this day, March 6, in 1997
I was 31 years old.
My elder daughter was 9.
My younger daughter was 7.
I was navigating difficult times, moving through my life in the best way I knew how. Enjoying my life and watching my children grow. Completely unaware that thousands of miles away my father was succumbing to esophageal cancer at the age of 48. He died knowing I was at least probably still out there somewhere, his daughter that he saw only once – on the day I was born. Only allowed to see through the nursery window. The product of the love that followed him throughout his sadly short life. He died waiting for me, wanting me to come and find him. He died maybe thinking that I had chosen not to seek him out. He died without knowing that he had two beautiful granddaughters. He died without me having the faintest idea that he existed, because my adoptive parents chose to keep that information from me. He died without having any concept of the shock and grief that reverberated through me when I discovered 18 years later that he was my father and that he was dead.
Rest in peace, Larry Griswold, my father. I wish I could have known you. I wish you could have known me.