I still remember standing in my dining room, reading the letter, walking back and forth, picking the letter up again and again to see if I glazed over the part where she said she wanted to meet me. It didn’t! As tears started to well up in my eyes and stain the letter, I was in disbelief that this woman—I dare not call her my mother—had waited 26 years to ask for money! How dare she ask me to put money on her books. I didn’t even know her or even knew what that meant. I’m not sure how long I waited, but I eventually wrote Janice back. In my letter, I had one question and one question only: “Who is my Father?”