A life-changing revelation was disclosed in a letter from my late mother on my eighteenth birthday: my stepfather, Stephen, was actually my biological father. After my mother passed away, I grew up viewing Stephen as a kind but aloof person. Even when I yelled in anguish, “You’re not my dad!” he stood with me at the most trying times. He remained in spite of my rage and became a loving, dependable part of my life.
I went to Stephen after reading my mother’s letter. He sobbed as he acknowledged that he had left when I was born, unprepared for fatherhood, but had come back with a lot of sorrow. I shocked him by taking him to the beach for a week to show my forgiveness. We bonded, laughed, and eventually got well. Stephen was now more than simply a parent figure; he was my father in all significant respects.
