"I wonder what I'll be like then..."

This was a line written in a letter I recently read.

The letter I found in a small cedar chest that recently made its way into my house. Inside were literally dozons of old letters, birthday cards, Mother's Day cards, Father's Day cards. Even an old Diary dated 1989.

This letter was dated December 31, 1988 - the day I found out that my sister and I were moving from Colorado Springs, Colorado to Stafford Springs, Connecticut. A letter that, apparently, had never been mailed off to my Grandmother - its intended recipient. Which was odd because I always handed letters over to my mother to mail off for me; I was 12.

After reading this letter, I began remembering a lot more about my childhood - and the reasons I had tried so hard to forget most of it. I was 12 years old, I was unpopular in school, getting ready to move to a new state, the diary kept records of most of my grades (which were all A's), my real father was dead - although I never really knew him because he had died when I was 2 - my sister and I were constantly fighting, and other than my immediate family, every one else was already scattered.

I'd written my Grandmother in hopes of planting a seed that she would take me in so I could leave before moving to Connecticut. To see if she would be willing. And in this letter read the following paragraphs (please excuse the grammar and spelling errors - I am posting this exactly as it was written):

...I hope it's ok to talk to you about my real dad. I wonder how he died. Did the Army ever tell you?

I also saw where some soldiers were missing for 15 years and then suddenley got home safe. Do you think thats possible? That would mean he would come back when I am 17. I wonder what I'll be like then."

Now, flash forward a bit to January 1994. I was 17, living on my own. I hadn't spoken to my mother or my sister in nearly two years - not since the day I found out my real father was, in fact, alive and my mother had lied. I was still getting good grades in school, I was gaining popularity, and I was working full-time to support myself. In between my half-dozen extra-curricular activities, school, and work, I was conducting a search for my biological father to try to find out what happened. I was unforgiving and cold about the lie and fully planned to never speak to my mother again. I didn't care what her reasons were. I had decided that I wanted to work and not go to college. I was bitter and busy.

Now, at 31 years old, I found this letter. My father and I have built up a very close relationship; my mother and I have reconciled. I am in my senior year in college with plans to continue on to graduate school. I help as many people as I can when I can find the resources to do so. I am married to a Disabled Vet from the Army, who at one time was on Active Duty.

At 12 years old, when writing this letter, I never would have dreamed that this would have been the trail of my life.

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