The envelope was postmarked July 1, 2008, branded with a two stamps and addressed to Asher Fusco.

I cracked the seal and unfolded a 7 inch by 4 inch slip of paper to find just what I asked for but more than I expected: Cody Lewis Cole’s birth certificate.

My birth certificate.

* * *

I didn’t keep my past a secret, I just didn’t make a point to tell anyone.

In the 18 years I’ve known my best friend, we graduated elementary, middle and high schools together. We have spent nearly two decades writing songs, playing basketball and killing time with one another, and he doesn’t know.

Conveniently enough, common conversation never included talk of birthparents, adoptive parents or anything of the sort. Because I didn’t have a reason to tell anyone, I kept quiet and stayed normal.

* * *

My hair is brown, my eyes dark brown. My father’s eyes are brown, his hair is black. My mother’s eyes are green, her hair dark brown. At first glance, we’re cut from the same cloth.

Closer inspection suggests otherwise.

I carried 180 doughy pounds on my wide-hipped frame as a high school freshman. My father entered college at a wiry 130 pounds — photographic evidence of this exists. My mother is on the far side of 50 and built like a gymnast.

* * *

Fusco isn’t much of a Kansas name. Fusco is a New York name, a Connecticut name or a New Jersey name. A Web search turns up 13 Fuscos in Kansas and more than 300 in New York.

The name Fusco buried so deep in the heartland usually begged a series of questions:

“Fusco? Where’s that name come from? Like what country? How’s it pronounced?”

“It’s Italian,” I’d say. “It’s Foo-sco. Long u.”

The answers were simple, but they always gave me pause. I knew Fusco was Italian, but I didn’t know if I was Italian. I knew the members of my family were Fuscos, but I didn’t know what I was.

* * *

“All right. Bye.”

That’s how every telephone conversation between my mother and I ends. My three-syllable exit always follows a particular phrase: My mother’s punctuates calls with, “I love you.”

I say, “All right. Bye.”

I didn’t know why I ended calls this way, but I wished I could muster the feeling to utter a quick, “I love you.” My tongue and brain seemed unable to coordinate in time to pull together anything substantial, so I put my emotions on autopilot.

I spent the better part of high school enduring daily reminders of the importance of the three words by my then-girlfriend and plenty of bad songs. Three years into college, I couldn’t remember the last time I had used the phrase.

My search started when I decided to untie my tongue.

* * *

During one of those awkwardly bookended phone calls, I finally became an active participant in my own life.

“Is there any way I could see some of that information?” I asked my mother, when she brought up her own mother’s fight against high blood pressure. “The genetic stuff? From my birth parents?”

My mother couldn’t tell me much off the top of her head: Only that I had grown up taller than doctors expected and that my birth mother was a single college student when I was born.

And for all intents and purposes, I didn’t have a biological father.

* * *

The letter the state of Kansas sent didn’t just call me Cody, it provided a lead: Her name was Michelle Dawn Cole.

I headed to a search engine and started digging. I found the Internet full of her name but low on answers.

One Michelle Cole was a movie buff who penned reviews at flixster.com. Another was interested in catching up with high school friends at reunion.com. A third maintained her own blog, devoted to “fun and learning.” A fourth earned Emmy nominations for designing the costumes for “In Living Color.”

I found Michelle D. Cole of Wichita in an online phone directory. The Web site gave me a map, an address and even a nine-digit postal code. And it gave me “phone number unavailable.”

* * *

The driveway beside the khaki house at 442 Vine was empty save for a few paint cans. I didn’t bother cluttering it with my car. Instead, I pulled my sedan to a stop in front of the modest split-level and wondered.

I wondered who mowed the yard, who cleaned the porch and who used the basketball rim hanging above the single garage door.

When I was finished wondering about where I could have grown up, I nudged the gas and took the next right turn. I headed east toward my home at 207 Courtleigh St. — where I did grow up.

I had to take a short look at what could have been to appreciate what I have become, but I didn’t need to become someone new.

* * *

I am the son of Robert and Deborah.

I am a Midwestern boy made of father-son baseball and bike rides and my mother’s best advice.

I am Asher Fusco.

— Edited by Mandy Earles