It’s always been fun to remember the good old days and think about them on Christmas Eve. I found a faded picture of my parents while going through old boxes in our basement. It was December 1997, eight months before my dad disappeared without a trace.
I felt like I was going through the painful parts of my youth all over again as the memories came flooding back. My mom never got over the fact that he disappeared, and I had to deal with the foster care system by myself.
A knock on the door woke me up as I looked at the picture. It was a young boy, scared from the cold, but with a strong look in his eyes. He said his name was David and showed me a friendship band I had made for my dad when I was six years old.
When David said, “I finally found you,” it sent chills down my spine. He said that he was my brother, and as we talked, I learnt that we had the same father, Christopher.
As the night went on, David told our dad stories about his life, and I realised that we had both been living in different worlds. However, the DNA test showed that David was not my actual brother.
Our father had left us both, and we were both looking for something to understand. I saw my own pain and strength in his eyes when I looked into them.
I knew I had to make a choice at that point. David could be left alone, or I could give him a chance to start a new family. As I gave him a tight hug, I knew I had made the right choice.
After a year, we sat down as a family during the Christmas season, filled with love and joy. David was now a part of our family, and I felt calm as we put the ornaments on the tree.
Even though it was a long and twisting road, it led me to a place where I could heal and do right. I knew that family wasn’t just blood ties when I looked at David. It was also about the choices we make and the love we share.
