A couple of weeks ago I got a text from a cousin, telling me a woman had contacted her, seeking information about her father - someone named "John."
She said the woman didn't know "John's" last name.
But she did mention the name of her mother, a woman I'd been using drugs with for a few months in East Los Angeles in the late 1960s. The last time I saw her, she said she was pregnant. And even though it's been about 50 years ago, I remember she was angry and we didn't part on good terms.
Around a week after I last saw her I went to jail in Orange County for drug charges and didn't see the sun for about 18 months. When I was released, I resumed my heroin addiction and my path as a career criminal.
During those years I wasn't fit to be a parent. I had two children I knew about, but I was rarely there for them. My life was all about self-gratification, about taking care of my heroin addiction. I was really a self-centered, miserable human being.
A couple of times I wondered what had happened to her mother. Was she really pregnant? Did she have the baby? Did her addiction cause her to lose it? But I never spent the time or effort to learn more. As it turns out, she was blessed by being adopted when she was three years old and raised by normal people.
And now, for the past few days, I've been getting acquainted by text and telephone with a delightful new daughter that I never knew I had. She has children and grandchildren. We're slowly getting to know one another.
In reflecting on meeting her I'm reminded of how our addictions can take precedence over everything else in our lives - much to our detriment.
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