I was 65. Suzanne and I, married for 24 years, didn’t have any children. This had to be a scam, I figured, but it might be entertaining, so I clicked it open. The first thing I saw, positioned at the top of the message, was a photo of Kelly (not her real name), whom I dated briefly in the late 1980s. I froze. Kelly … daughter … Kelly? … daughter? was all I could think or feel. Then I called to Suzanne: “Honey, can you come and take a look at this?” I showed her my laptop screen and said, “I know this woman.”

I had met Kelly in a Portland, Oregon, nightclub. I was a New York-based basketball writer, reporting a story on the Trail Blazers. Kelly had gorgeous red hair and a confident demeanor. We had fun for a weekend, and a month later she visited me in New York. When I put her on a plane back to Portland, though, we both knew we weren’t going any further together, and I never heard from her again.

“My name is Alexandra,” Kelly’s daughter — our daughter? — wrote in her email to me. “Recent DNA analysis and paternity testing has shown that my dad is not my biological father. My Mum subsequently told me that it is you. It was bizarre to Google a stranger who looks like yourself! I would love to have some contact with you if you are open to it.”

Alexandra (her real name) included photos of herself, adding that she was 30 years old and the head of year 10 at a North London secondary school. “I adore travel,” she said, “I enjoy Pilates, and I also perform stand-up comedy.”

Suzanne and I agreed: Approaching me this way took guts. In the photos, Alex seemed warm, appealing. Her skin was fairer than mine, lightly freckled, and her straight, middle-parted hair was brown, while mine — at her age, at least — had been black. But, as Suzanne pointed out, “She’s got the Capouya brow!”

I didn’t know how to respond. “Wow. Wow. I’m shocked and amazed,” I wrote back, “but I do want to be in touch. My wife and I just need a little more time to absorb this.”

Over the next few days, the numbness thawed, but amid the thought storms and bursts of emotions that rocked me, I never doubted my paternity. (Genetic testing confirmed it a few weeks later.) After all, Kelly had named me. I had no idea what instant fatherhood might mean, but I was extremely curious. Since 50 percent of Alexandra’s DNA was mine, would she be … like me, only female? After a lifetime of no contact, would anything but biology makes us “related”? I was also excited. Whatever else this turned out to be, it would not be dull.

But I also felt spasms of alarm in my gut. I’d never wanted any part of parenthood, and now I’d been conscripted involuntarily. Alexandra didn’t seem needy, not a mess. But she must want something from me. What was it, and was it anything I’d care to give?

A daughter dropping into our lives would be a massive disruption for Suzanne as well. We’d lived in a cozy two-person snow globe for a quarter century — how would she react? My wife didn’t hesitate. “This could be a whole new dimension to our lives,” she told me. Parts of me were still leery, still skeptical. But if this new family dynamic turned toxic, I could always walk away. I decided: I’d try meeting this no-longer-a-child of mine halfway.

Although I’m a writer by trade, I had no intention of going public with the life-changing journey that followed. It’s too private, too personal. All my books and articles are about other people. But then a second cataclysm changed my mind.

WHEN ALEX FIRST reached out, it was 2020, mid-pandemic, and we couldn’t visit in person, so she and I began a yearlong series of Zooms. She told me that soon after I had last seen Kelly, she’d married a Scot — let’s call him James Greene — and moved to the U.K., where Alex was born and has lived all her life.

Our video conversations were frank and revealing from the first. Alex explained that her parents split up when she was 4 and that she stayed with her dad. Kelly eventually moved back to the U.S.

“My parents divorced when I was 2,” I responded, “and I ended up with my mother.” I ached for my father much of my young life. My daughter and I shared the painful void of losing our same-sex parent. That may have been the beginning of our closeness.

Alex told me that, in retrospect, there had been a few hints about her parentage along the way. When she was 11, one of her aunts had muttered something about Greene not being Alex’s “real father.” And, in high school, Alex learned that, while it’s not impossible for her two green-eyed parents to produce a daughter with brown eyes (like hers and mine), it’s very unlikely. Still, when she and Greene sent off their samples to 23andMe in 2020, they were only seeking information about their ancestry and genetic profiles.

The results shocked them both: The father and daughter shared zero DNA. Greene had had no idea that Alex wasn’t his biological daughter. Alex pressed her mother for the truth. The answer came back: “John Capouya.” Greene responded the way I hope I might have done in his situation. “This doesn’t change anything for me,” he told Alex. “You’re my daughter and I love you. But if you want to be in touch with this other man, you should.”

The way Alex remembers it, I told her early on that I’d avoided having children “like the plague.” That’s blunt, even for me. True enough, though. I was a bereft child and deathly afraid of replicating that pattern. I also knew I was self-centered if not downright selfish — not the best parental attribute.

She’d been sober for a year, Alex told me. I said, “I probably should be.” I drank to excess for long stretches; I’m moderating now but it takes constant vigilance. It pained me to hear that quitting cost Alex her best friend, a drinking buddy. Her past struggles summoned my own, including the shame of relapsing and concealing drinking from loved ones. My empathy grew, but I also had this tormenting thought: Did I visit this burden on her? There’s a strong hereditary component to alcohol abuse. That fear comes back to me still and when it does, I feel wretched.

Our exchanges weren’t all angst, though. We needed basic info, our life stories. Then, too, there’s something downright goofy about an unknown parent and a surprise child facing each other — on little blue screens — 30 years late. The whole thing was preposterous, and we shared laughter about it. “Since you’re not going to spit up on my shirt anymore,” I told her, “and you don’t need money for college, maybe this will be OK!”

What if Kelly had called me back then with the news that I was a father? To me, it’s better she didn’t. They lived 3,000 miles away. I would have been an absentee father, and Alex did much better with Greene.

Some friends thought I’d be angry with Kelly for depriving me of Alex’s childhood. That thought never occurred to me. Kelly made the decisions she thought were best for her and her daughter and had to live with them, just like the rest of us do. True, Alex and I don’t have those longer, deeper bonds that most fathers and daughters share. But not owning any history together means we don’t have any bad history, either. “I haven’t been telling you what to do for 30 years,” I told her, “and you haven’t been defying me for 30 years, so what’s not to get along?” We’d had no conflict, carried no tensions or resentments. Our slate was harmoniously clean.

In August of 2021, we were finally able to visit in person. Our easy long-distance rapport would be put to a harder, longer test. We’d still like each other, right? Or would we part disappointed, never to meet again?

SUZANNE AND I FLEW UP from Florida and Alex met us in New York for a week. My anxiety was immediately relieved. Just like online Alex, in-person Alex was sharp, funny, agreeable and independent — only more so, in higher definition. She was also keenly interested in me, and I basked in the positive attention. Maybe that’s one of the unexpected pleasures of accidental fatherhood.

Some of my parenting impulses were clearly off the mark. When I tried to adjust her mask on the street, Alex nicely but firmly backed me off. At first Suzanne and I picked up every check, but soon Alex said she’d pay her own way. We did a lot of walking and talking, and I gleaned more insights into her and us.

We’re different:

She’s tiny, 4-foot-11, and her hands are skinny, childlike things. I’m 5-foot-11 and Alex’s mother is around 5-foot-6. It’s a mystery.

I could never get up on stage facing a skeptical, drunken room, and try to get laughs. But Alex has done stand-up at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe and took advantage of visiting us in NYC to do several open mics. Too bad we were banned, Alex telling us: “Some of the material isn’t suitable for any of my parents.”

She’s a ghoul, devouring gory true-crime podcasts. Me? Way too squeamish for that stuff.

Alex has dual citizenship but she’s a Brit, with the accent and slang to prove it. Weird things are “Wee-yud” to her, and something for sure is “defo!”

We’re the same:

Like me she’s fast to think, say and do — and impatient with the sluggish. “If only the world could keep up,” Alex complains. Early on I began telling her how much I wanted to keep pursuing our relationship.

“Same,” she seconded speedily.

“So, if you ever feel you’re not getting something from me …”

“I will,” she said.

When she agrees with something, it’s: “Fact.”

We’re both teachers. When we met, Alex had just created a science club and a comedy club for girls. I admired her creativity and commitment.

We’re both addicted to caffeine.

On our last night together, the three of us said goodbye in Alex’s hotel lobby. I reached both arms out to my daughter with upturned hands. “Put ’em there,” I said. She looked puzzled but placed her palms softly on top of mine. Looking her in the eyes, I told her, “Suzanne and I are thrilled and delighted you’re in our lives, and we want to keep it that way.”

She agreed — we had a pact. Unlike other parent-child bonds, ours was voluntary, a choice, and as a result, I felt, that much more powerful.

LATER IN THE PANDEMIC Alex asked if Suzanne and I could Zoom on a weeknight, which was unusual. We thought she and her live-in boyfriend, Matt, might be announcing their engagement, so I ran out and bought prosecco to celebrate. Instead, Alex told us she was really struggling at work. With so many teachers out sick, stress piled up on those who remained. At one point she had to take a leave.

I should help her — father her — I agonized, but how? “Being supportive” seemed inadequate, but it was the best I could do, I realized, even if I had been in London instead of an ocean away. “I feel bad that she’s suffering,” I told Suzanne, “but I have to admit, I feel good that she wants to confide in us.”

In July of 2022 we visited Alex in London. By then she and Matt were engaged, and she had gotten a much better job where, she gleefully told us, “I have my own parking space!” I was so proud of my daughter then as I am overall, though I can’t take any credit.

On our last night there, Alex had two of her close friends over for dinner so we could all meet. Suzanne and I got to see another facet of Alex as she teased and bantered rapid-fire with her “mates.”

When we were leaving, Alex told Suzanne and me that we’d been promoted as well. “Now I really feel like you’re my American parents,” Alex said. “In New York, we were getting to know each other and becoming friends.” She smiled. “We’re not friends anymore.”

BY THAT TIME Suzanne and I had retired and moved back to New York City. One morning when I got home from swimming, Suzanne said, “You seem happier these days.”

“Of course,” I replied. “I don’t have to work anymore, our apartment is great, we’re seeing old friends …”

My wife had another idea. “I think it’s Alex,” she said.

“Fact,” as my daughter would say. I realized I was growing more attached to her, but until we came back from London, I didn’t fully understand the depth of it, the reservoir of feeling beneath the surface. At every encounter, in person or online, I’m just delighted. Once just a stranger on a screen, this young woman with my brow, my addictions and my fast-thinking, fast-talking personality has unlocked a tender part of me I didn’t know I had.

I think some of our initial amazement — at finding each other, at growing close, at the way our lives have changed — remains. I know I still feel that charge. “This (us) is so great, unbelievable …” I texted her a little while back.

“Wild!” she replied.

I love her so much, my sudden daughter. Once I truly, viscerally realized that, though, I was terror-struck, the way I imagine other parents must feel for their children’s entire lives. What if something terrible happens to her? I thought. I’d be devastated.

Then something terrible happened to me.

IN THE FALL OF 2022, I was diagnosed with a rare and very aggressive form of cancer. Doctors are reluctant to answer the question: “What are my chances?” But the one who would said that, even with the best treatment, the odds of my living another five years were poor. I downplayed that with Alex; I guess my candor has its limits. Still, breaking the news was not easy.

When we told her and Matt via Zoom, Alex outwardly kept her composure. Her eyes narrowed as she listened intently and asked keen questions about treatments and second opinions. She has been steadfast, checking in every time I have chemotherapy, and not flinching when I described the gruesome surgery I’d undergo. “That’s actually the good news,” I wrote her. “If they didn’t take out those cancerous parts, it would be because it’s spread.”

“Okay, so surgery let’s goooo!” she replied. 

In our private WhatsApp chats she’s been more emotional at times, writing, “I can’t believe my dad has cancer,” and using praying hands, flexed biceps and heart emojis. I’m so thankful that Alex cares for me and shows it. On my downhearted days, though, I’m crushed anew by the fear of losing each other.

When I began treatment, I told my oncologist, “My daughter’s getting married in 10 months, and I need to be there.”

“OK,” he said earnestly, writing himself a note. “That’s the goal.”

I made it. Suzanne and I flew to London this past June, where we met Matt’s family for the first time — and Alex’s original dad. (Kelly wasn’t able to come, but there’s another celebration in the works for 2024.) Everyone there, including the aunts and uncles, knew our backstory, and Suzanne and I were not just accepted by all, but embraced. From family dinners to breakfasts, drinks and coffees, we literally had seats at every table.

Alex and Matt didn’t want the event in an East London park to be a solemn ceremony. Alex and her bridesmaids danced down the aisle to the song “Head & Heart” by Joel Corry, and guests were provided with heart-shaped sunglasses. Greene had the rings; I was a witness, signing the legal documents. Suzanne and I made sure we had tissues ready, but neither of us cried — it was too much fun. Watching my daughter and embracing her that day, I thanked whatever or whomever had made me open to this new kind of joy.

The day before, Greene and I had had a dad-meets-dad lunch, just the two of us, arranged by Alex. (The way Alex refers to her two fathers is constantly evolving. Last I heard, he’s Scottish dad and I’m American dad.) We walked to an Italian restaurant together. First he told me I could stop calling him Mr. Greene and just use his first name: “We’re the same age.”

I praised him for raising such a lovely young woman. “She’s smart, funny, and she’s fearless,” I said, “and that’s down to you.” And I thanked him for his openness. He’s not the least bit threatened and completely comfortable with me and Suzanne being in Alex’s life. Across the lunch table he told me, “Alexandra is the most important thing in the world to me, and the more people who love her — who take her into their hearts as you have — the better.”

I looked down at my pasta just to break eye contact, I was so moved by his generosity. Would I have reacted this way? I asked myself. I doubted it; I’m just not used to thinking like that. This guy, I realized, is parenting.

I’m not too self-critical about my dad qualities and contributions, however; after all, I did get a late start. I’ll be happy to do the best I can for Alex for as long as I can. I need time, though, time that is by no means a given. I yearn for decades more with Suzanne, Alex, Matt and our new families. But cancer doesn’t care.

DURING MY ONGOING TREATMENT, a nurse checked in with me to assess my mood and mental health. Among many other questions, she asked me, “Since you’ve learned more about your diagnosis and prognosis, have you had suicidal thoughts?”

“Hell, no,” I replied. “I have a lovely wife, some money in the bank and a beautiful daughter I’ve only known for a very few years. I want to live.”

“Good, that’s important,” the nurse told me. “Hold that thought.”

And I do.