As I unpack a storage bin labeled “CHILDHOOD,” one artifact at a time, I construct a fortress around myself on my bedroom floor. I sort my life story into categories: stuffed animals, elementary school projects, drawings, photographs, cassette tapes, pairs of glasses, baby clothes, cards and letters. I pull a three-ring binder onto my lap. Its plastic sleeve pages archive my father’s letters from Finland. Ever since I immigrated to the United States with my mother and stepfather in 1989, a distance of 4,667 miles has separated me from my father. On approximately 4,667 separate occasions, I have wondered about the troublesome matter of who my father really is....