She produced a snapshot, a curling and yellowed Polaroid, its colors faded to vague pastels. In it stood three young men, twentysomethings in jeans and T-shirts, in front of an old DC-3. The middle one, the tallest, had straight blond hair to his shoulders, and tattoos: a huge tribal piece snaked from his T-shirt sleeve down his left arm, and I could see another on his right bicep. The guy to his right was shorter, slim, muscular, shoulder length sun-streaked brown hair, both arms heavily tattooed. On the tall one's other side was an even shorter dude with longish dark hair, whose Harley-Davidson T-shirt and black jeans gave him the look of a biker. Unlike the other two, his arms were unmarked, and unlike the others, he wasn't smiling. His eyes were so blue they looked colorless in the faded print, a bit disquieting. The tall blond one and the sandy-haired one were barefooted, I could see bare toes peeping out from under their bellbottoms; the biker-looking dude wore heavy black boots.
     Mom indicated the middle one, the tall blond dude. "That's your father.
     "Those three ran a marijuana smuggling operation. Kevin - your father's name was Kevin Densmore - was a pilot, a very enthusiastic one. He loved flying, and he also loved smoking pot. He was the one that began smuggling. That's what he did until that last flight, when he..." Her words trailed off.
     I was aghast. Dad was not my real father? It was like my life, my reality had just suffered a major earthquake.