My mother had me at seventeen. Overwhelmed and unprepared, she gave me up before I was old enough to form a single memory of her. I grew up wondering who she was, whether she ever thought of me, and if she regretted leaving.
When I turned twenty, I finally found the courage to search for her. I imagined tears, a hug, maybe even an apology. Instead, when she opened the door and saw me, she looked terrified—like I was a ghost from a life she wanted erased. “Forget about me,” she said coldly. “My husband is a powerful man. He’d leave me if he knew about you.” Her words broke something deep inside me. I walked away with a pain I didn’t know how to name.
A year later, someone knocked on my door. A well-dressed man stood there, shaking. “I’m your mother’s husband,” he said. My heart stopped. He explained he had overheard a conversation between my mother and grandmother and discovered my existence. When he urged her to reach out, she refused. She told him I was “dead to her.”
He couldn’t accept that. He hired someone to find me himself. Then he handed me an envelope filled with photos of two smiling girls—my sisters. Beneath them was a stack of money. “I know you’re struggling,” he said gently. “Please take this. And you’re welcome in our home anytime. Your mother won’t see you, but the girls deserve to know their sister.”
Tears filled my eyes as he hugged me. In that moment, I finally felt what a real father’s love should feel like.
