I don’t even know where to start. I was the product of a brief relationship between my dad and my biological mother. It didn’t work out between them and he ended up going back to a woman he’d dated for a long time. My bio-mom didn’t tell him about me until I was nine years old. I guess it’s a good thing she finally told him, because a year later, she died from a drug overdose. Yeah, she wasn’t the best role model I could have had, constantly blaming my dad for getting her pregnant and then leaving. Of course, it was all revisionist history since she ditched my dad, then found out she was pregnant, and never let him know (until, of course, she needed money). And before you wonder, no my dad isn’t the one who told me the real story, it was my mom’s mother, my grandmother. She was the only stability I had in my life until I was ten years old. Then my bio-mom died. My grandmother was too old to care for a feisty troublemaking pre-teen by herself, so she asked my dad if he could help. Not only did he help, he moved me to Los Angeles, into his home with his wife. He also offered to move my grandmother, but she didn’t want to leave her beloved Bensonhurst. She passed away when I was twelve.
My dad and his wife, who I call “mom,” gave me stability, love, and eventually, siblings (who I will discuss in another post). They weathered the storms, kept me safe, and gave me security beyond what I could have ever imagined. And twenty-five years later, they keep on giving it. My parents are the greatest parents I could ask for, and I would choose no others. Every decision I’ve made, good or bad, they’ve been there for me. Every friend I’ve made (and believe me when I say that I’ve made some pretty strange friends), they’ve embraced. I’m very lucky. And I know it.
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