I grew up believing my father abandoned me at age three. No calls, no letters—just silence. My mother insisted, “He made his choice,” and refused to speak of him. There were no photos, no stories, just an angry void. When I was seven, I found a letter in the trash with my name on it—not in her handwriting. My mother snatched it from me. “It’s from him,” she said coldly. “We’re not opening it.” I was too young to protest, but I never forgot.
Years passed. At twelve, I asked again. She only said, “He didn’t want us.” I stopped asking. Then one day, I got a call from a woman named Laura. “I’m your father’s wife,” she said gently. “He passed away last week. I thought you should know.” I went to the funeral, sat quietly at the back, a stranger to everyone there—until Laura found me. “He left something for you,” she said.
