I was surprised at how much I could look like another human. My cheekbones were his cheekbones. My eyes were his eyes. Even the freckles scattered across my shoulders had a place on his shoulders. I’d only ever seen pictures of him, back when he was younger. There was so much life in his eyes, so much joy in his body. Now, his laugh lines have turned to smoker’s lines and his body rattles with every breath. He was handsome, once. I could see what my mom saw in him.

My family members who met him always told me that I looked like him, and I was thankful then. It made me feel like I belonged to someone, that there was someone out there responsible for helping to create me. Now, I crave to look like my mom. I crave everything to be from my mother, my sole creator. But I know he still lives in my bones.

We met the summer before I turned twelve. We were on vacation in my hometown of Binghamton, New York to visit the family that still lives there. I hadn’t decided until then – it was now or never. I started shaking when we turned onto Hudson Street, my eyes desperately seeking which home was his. Which house was going to cater to this monumental moment? My mom’s white Taurus shuddered against the curve and sighed into an idle in front of a small and exhausted house. My mother and sat in silence for what seemed like hours but was probably few minutes, my tension bouncing off of me. Why couldn’t I stop shaking? Eventually, my mom took incentive and coaxed me out of the car, and held my hand as we climbed up the four steps to his porch.

He answered before I knocked, my trembling hand thankful to return to its place at my side. I peered up to the dark figure, an awkward smile plastered on a blank face. He was shirtless, a beer gut drooping over the waistband of his Levi’s. We hugged – our first and only. There wasn’t any need for introductions, even though I swear to this day that he didn’t remember my name. He called me nicknames; ‘sweetie’, ‘honey’, ‘beautiful’. He motioned to his couch, where my mother was already sitting. He took his place in his recliner, the outline of his body apparent in the chair. The couch was dirty, an off-white, stained with the settling of cigarette smoke. From my seat on the couch I could see the kitchen, half-assed clean, the trashcan overwhelmed with blue and silver cans – Bud Light. Beside the sink were two half full bottles of piss colored liquid. We thought he had quit.

He asked me the generic questions:

How’s school?

What grade are you in?

Do you like school?

What’s your favorite subject?

Do you play any sports?

Do you like playing?

I answered them all, my voice trembling, never saying too much. I had so many questions for him too, but I was small and he was big, and I cared and he didn’t. My mother sat quietly, prompting us when we weren’t sure what to say. It never crossed my mind how difficult it must have been for her to be there, in that house. She’s always been strong, always put me first. He tells me he keeps my Upward basketball picture in his mirror, says he thinks of me everyday. I don’t believe him but I don’t tell him that.

After an hour, we decide its time to go. He walks me to our car, mom trailing behind us. We don’t hug, instead saying awkward goodbyes. “Maybe we could see each other again, it was nice meeting you, I’ll call you sometime. “ I climb in the car, my trembling going away slowly. My mom gets in the drivers side and reaches over for my hand, remaining quiet. As we pull away from the curb I see him climbing his steps from the corner of my eye, but I don’t look back. I doubt he did either.