The day my dad left, my world collapsed. At 13, I stood in the driveway, watching him drive away without a word. “Why did he leave us?” I asked my mom, but she had no answers. We were shattered, yet we pulled through together, forming an unbreakable bond.
Ten years later, while driving home, I spotted a hitchhiker. To my shock, it was my dad with a little girl. Silence hung thick as I drove them. Finally, I asked, “Is she my sister?” His answer revealed his new life, but nothing eased the hurt of abandonment.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but sorry couldn’t undo the damage. As I dropped them off, I realized something important. I didn’t need my dad’s love to feel whole. I had my mom, and that was more than enough.
“Sometimes,” I thought, “the family you choose is more important than the one you’re born into.” With my mom’s love, I could move forward and leave the past behind.
