When I was 7, “Santa” left a Gameboy on a blue blanket right in front of our door. My parents never knew who gave it, but I remember Mom quietly tearing up when she saw it. Dad always thought it was from a family friend.
Last year, after Dad passed away, Mom finally told me the truth: the Gameboy came from a man who wanted to meet me—my biological father. She had kept him a secret, afraid it would cause pain and confusion. Dad, the man who raised me, never knew.
This man flew in from another country just to see me. When he couldn’t, he left the Gameboy as a silent gift—a way to connect without words. The blue blanket? That was from my mom, from the brief time they were together.
Nearly 20 years later, I finally understand. I don’t know if I can forgive Mom for hiding the truth, but I’m grateful I grew up with Dad—the best father I could have asked for. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
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