Nonfiction | March 01, 2006

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One crystalline spring evening in London I heard from a woman who declared, “I have reason to believe you’re my biological father.” Speaking long distance from Los Angeles, she said she had been born there on December 24, 1964. As she told me the precise time of her birth, her weight and the color of her eyes and her hair, the conversation assumed the sort of sinking inevitability that attaches itself to events that you realize you’ve been waiting for, half in dread, half in hope, for decades.

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