I found my dead dad on Google
Tuesday 16th June 2009
Have you ever been convinced you were right, even when everyone told you you were wrong? That's how I felt about my dad, Dirk Pratt. You see, since I was a child, everyone had told me he was dead. 'You've got to accept it,' people told me. 'Move on.' But I couldn't. In my heart, I was convinced Dad was alive. And I was determined to do everything I could to prove it. Even if that meant moving thousands of miles away to find him. Which was exactly what I was doing. I'd last seen my dad when I was 18 months old. Me, my mum, Juana Coto, now 54, and Dad lived in New Orleans, Louisiana. But in 1981, my grandma, Amada, who lived in Ecuador, had been taken ill. Mum and I had gone over there to look after her while Dad had stayed at home to work. 'Just for a while,' Mum promised.
But months turned into years and we'd ended up staying. Because I was so young, I never questioned it, even when Mum met her new boyfriend, Arturo, when I was 5. Dad was just a blurry memory. It wasn't until I turned 12 that I'd started to ask questions. 'Where's my dad?' I asked Mum. 'Your dad had to ring me at a neighbour's because we didn't have a phone,' Mum explained. 'He called every week at first. But Grandma got sicker, and we ended up staying longer and eventually, he just stopped phoning.' Mum thought he was angry that we'd been away for so long. 'I was devastated,' she said. 'I thought he didn't want to be with me any more.' 'But didn't you try to get hold of him?' I prodded. 'Your grandma didn't have a phone and I didn't have any money,' she replied. Grandma had died when I was 4, and a year later, Mum had heard through friends that Dad had died in a diving accident. Diving accident? Sounded like a fishy story to me. I may have only been 12, but even I could see this story had more holes than a fishing net. But there was no point pushing it. Mum had accepted that Dad was gone, but the older I got, the more I realised I couldn't.
Over the years, I'd fantasised about Dad. Was he out there somewhere thinking about me? I'd never be happy until I found out. So when I turned 16, I decided to start trying to find him. I spent hours in internet cafés trying to find numbers for him. It's strange how disappointment affects people differently. Some people just give up. Me? It just made me even more determined to go on. Now, it was November 2007, and I was 27. Clutching the only photo I had of Dad, I boarded a plane to Florida, as that's where he'd been living when he supposedly died. As I stepped off a few hours later, I took a deep breath. Where are you, Dad?
It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, but at least I was in the right country. My friend, Eloisa, had offered to put me up. I'd barely set foot in her flat when I was logged onto her computer searching websites that reunite people with long-lost family. This message is for Dirk M Pratt, I typed on one called Zaba Search. I'm his daughter. I checked it frantically for the next five months, as well as other websites that put people in touch, but there was no response. After checking it for what felt like the 100th time, I sighed. 'Where are you?' I shouted. Despair set in. Maybe Dad really was dead. Maybe I'd never get the chance to see if he shared my skinny legs, short temper and love of scary films.
And then I realised. I could never give up. Because this was about more than just quirky little traits. This was about knowing where I came from. Even when I fell in love with Pedro Sandoval, then 18, it wasn't enough. 'If he's out there, he'd be mad not to love you,' Pedro told me one night over dinner. When we got back home, the phone was ringing. It was Mum, calling from Ecuador. 'I've just spoken to your dad,' she spluttered. I was so shocked, I dropped the phone. 'What's wrong?' Pedro gasped. 'I… I swear Mum just said she'd spoken to Dad,' I stuttered. Grabbing the phone again, I realised Mum was still gabbling in excitement. 'Your dad's alive!' she said. 'I've just spoken to him.' They were the words I had waited 27 years to hear. 'He didn't have time to explain anything,' Mum went on. 'But he gave me his number and said he was waiting for your call.' My hands were shaking as I put the phone down. 'My dad's alive,' I said to Pedro.
After he made me a cup of tea to calm me down, Pedro offered to call Dad for me. I chewed my nails as he dialled the number. 'Is that Dirk?' he asked. 'I'm here with your daughter, Francesca.' Suddenly, Pedro was handing me the phone and the world went into slow motion. 'H-hello?' I whispered. Silence. Then… 'Francesca?' a deep voice asked. A thousand goose bumps prickled up my spine. 'Dad!' I gasped. Tears streamed down my face. 'I've never stopped looking for you,' he wept. 'You're still my baby.' Over the next few days, we talked for hours and, slowly, I pieced together what had happened. 'You and your mum were only supposed to be going to Ecuador for two months,' he said. We'd been there the full two months when Grandma answered the phone. But she didn't speak English, so she'd passed the phone to another woman he didn't know. She'd told him in broken English that I'd been bitten by a mosquito and died. 'When I called back, she put the phone down on me,' he said. 'I was devastated. I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I went to the Equadorian consulate every day for three years to try to find you, but they couldn't track you down.'
I was horrified. Why had Grandma made up such an evil lie? 'We were told you died in a diving accident,' I gasped. 'Hardly,' he laughed. 'I haven't been in the water since seeing Jaws.' Then, a month before we found each other, he'd rented the Angelina Jolie movie, Wanted, where one of the characters searches for a name on Google. 'I'd wondered what would happen if I Googled myself,' Dad explained. 'So I did. And I saw the message you'd left for me.' He'd responded, but I'd given up looking on that site by then. Desperate, he'd put an ad in the local paper. Eventually, a journalist there passed his number onto Mum, and she phoned him straight away. My head was spinning. Had Grandma done it to get me and Mum to stay? If so, why do it in such a horrible way? 'We've found each other now, none of that matters,' Dad said. He was right. I could either hold onto the past and grow bitter, or I could concentrate on my new future with Dad.
A month later, I was on a flight to Seattle, Washington, where Dad now lived, and fidgeting so much, the man next to me must have thought I had ants in my pants. Fly faster, I willed the pilot. Dad was just as desperate as me, because when we landed, he had arranged with security to let him wait by the plane steps. So when I stepped off the plane, the first person I saw was Dad. I flew into his arms and he hugged me so tight, I could barely breathe. And with that, 27 years of hurt, pain and confusion melted away. Pure magic. 'I love you, Francesca,' Dad wept. 'I love you too, Dad,' I sobbed. Back at his house, we sat up until the early hours, sharing stories and showing each other photos. I had two teenage sisters, Sarah, now 17, and Debbie, 15. By the time I collapsed into bed, exhausted, I knew exactly where I got my skinny legs, short temper and love of scary films from.
Six weeks on, I still have to pinch myself to check it's not a dream. After a rocky start in life, things just get better and better. I'm expecting my first baby with Pedro at Christmas, and Dad's ecstatic. 'I've found a daughter, and now I'm getting a grandchild,' he beamed when I told him. Wild horses won't keep him away when I have the baby, that's for sure. And that's the way things are going to stay. Nothing and no one will ever keep us apart again. I love you, Dad.
Dirk Pratt, 51, said: 'When Francesca was a baby, she was everything to me. My world fell apart when I thought she'd died, but something inside told me never to give up hope that I'd find her.'