When I was 7, ”Santa” left a Gameboy in front of our door. It was placed on a blue blanket. My parents had no clue who gifted it, but I remember Mom tearing up when she saw it.
Dad had always suspected it was from a family friend. Last year, Dad died. Mom came to me and revealed that the Gameboy was from a man who wanted to meet me—my biological father. She had refused to let him see me, knowing it would raise questions and suspicions. My dad, the man who raised me, had no clue.
The man had flown in from another country just to see me, and when he couldn’t, he left the Gameboy as a parting gift. He wanted to leave me with something, even though I would never know it was from him. As for the blue blanket, it was a gift from my mom during their brief fling.
Now, nearly 20 years later, I finally know the truth. I don’t know if I can forgive my mom, but part of me is grateful I didn’t know back then. My dad—the man who raised me—was the greatest father I could have ever asked for, and I wouldn’t have wanted him to feel hurt or betrayed.
