I've never asked my mother who my biological father was, and I'm not going to. It's nothing against him. How, after all, can I hold a grudge against a man who for all intents and purposes doesn't exist. I am here for no reason. I come from nothing and I am going to nothing. The culture of my ancestors is a meaningless coincidence. Even when I believed in God I knew these things, and was unbothered by them. There are many who yearn for purpose in life and influence upon others. And then there are those who are otherwise. We are all completely rootless and meaningless however we feel about it.
I had a psychologist once who asked me why I didn't know the name of my biological father. I told him it was because I hadn't asked. When he asked me why this was I said it was because I was incurious about the matter. He didn't believe me.
I was speaking with my cousin sometime in my teenage years. He said it must of been tough to spend my early years without a dad. The truth is that I didn't notice. I did notice my stepfather after my mom married her. He who never shuts up. The one who will invariably drag you into his inane raving conversation whenever you're within twenty feet of him. The one whose face will curl up into this disgusting grimace of pain whenever there is a moment of silence in the room.
Whenever I consider the possibility that my mother married him because she thought I needed a father, I am deeply haunted. I can only hope she married him for herself. The alternative is unbearable.