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wonderful, He or She always starts with a hardship; whenGod is going to do something amazing, He or She starts with an impossibility.
    I have written about being a single mother but have rarely mentioned Sam’s father, except in a memoir of Sam’s first year, where I said things that made me sound perhaps a little victimized by and merciless toward his father. In early December 1988, I got pregnant by a man named John, whom I had been dating, in the biblical sense. We did not sit around all day making moo-goo-gai-pan eyes at each other, but we hung out and loved to talk and go to movies and libraries. It was very nice. Then I got pregnant, and John, who already had two grown children, was ready for independence and travel, while I was ready to have a baby. I was thirty-four and could not face more abortions, and my eggs were getting old, like eggs you’d get at the 7-Eleven. I decided to have the baby, and everything between John and me turned to shit, and he went his way and I went mine.
    Then I had this beautiful kid. It was very hard in the beginning, and I hated that Sam didn’t get to have a dad, but I provided him with the world’s kindest men. I didn’t even think of trying to find John, this man with whom I had such a bad history, yet who’d given me the greatest gift of my life.
    When Sam asked about his father over the years, which was not often, I’d tell him the truth. Sort of. I did not mention how badly things had ended, that his dad and I had said things to each other that perhaps Jesus would not have said. I told Sam what a smart, sweet man his father was, which is true, that he was tall and good-looking. I told him I had two photos of John he could see if he ever wanted to, and that I’d help him if he ever wanted to try to find him. And I really, really hoped he’d never want to.
    When Sam was in first grade, there was a fine crack in the wall of silence. A letter arrived from John, in response to a story I’d published about Sam and his first library card. It was one sentence of grief and pride and outreach—but there was no phone number or other way to contact him. It only made me feel more confused, and in my swirl of blame and fear, I put the letter away.
    A year later, when Sam was seven, he started wondering more frequently where his dad was, and what kind of a man he was. The man I was with at the time told me point-blank that I had to help Sam begin his search. That it was time. I wept. I was so afraid—sore afraid—and hopeless that Sam would never get to find his father or that, even worse, he would.
    When Sam would ask about his father, I’d say, “Do you want to see his pictures?” He always said no, thank you. (He has good manners, which I believe can cover a multitude of sins.) But one day when we were sitting in the car after church, he looked solemn. Clearly he had something on his mind. He said, “I think I’d like to see those pictures now.”
    I felt as if I had swallowed a bunch of rubber bands. When we got home, I took the photos out of the file and handed them to Sam. He studied John for a moment, the big round eyes, small nose, dark hair, all like his own.
    â€œHow could we find him?” he asked.
    I didn’t know, except that with writing, you start where you are, and you usually do it poorly. You just do it—you do it afraid. And something happens.
    I called John’s old number, the one in the phone book, and no one answered. I called John’s father’s house, and no one answered there. I called his best friend, with whom I had lost touch, and there was no one there, either. Then I prayed, because when all else fails, you follow instructions, and I began to pray the way my mentors had taught me: I prayed, “Help me, help me.” I prayed, “Please. Please.” I let go of an angstrom of blame. That was the hardest part. This batch of blame had more clawmarks than most of the