I grew up believing my mom left the day I was born. My dad, Miles, raised me alone and never made me feel unwanted. He was there for everything—braiding my hair, calming my panic attacks, showing up every time.
At 19, I got a video call from my mom, dying in a hospital. She asked me to come and made one request: don’t let the truth ruin my relationship with my dad. Then she told me Miles isn’t my biological father.
She’d had an affair. My dad knew. He chose to stay anyway, signed my birth certificate, and raised me as his own. My biological father wanted involvement, but Miles stopped it to protect me from a chaotic life, letting himself look like the villain.
I was angry—but I chose not to chase blood over love. My mom died two days later. On the drive home, my dad told me he’d give me the other man’s name if I ever wanted it.
I said not now. Maybe never.
Miles didn’t give me DNA—but he chose me. And that made him my dad.