I was the only one at home, and I had a lot to do. Papa wasn't back from work yet, and we had to prepare for the upcoming church event where we needed to donate a couple of things. I decided I'd give away my old clothes and shoes too.
The only problem? They were in the attic.
I had always avoided going up there. The attic brought back memories of Mama. Papa had turned it into a kind of memorial room after she passed. He used to clean it all by himself; he knew it would be too painful for me to see all her belongings neatly arranged in one place.
But I couldn't wait for him. I had to get this done.
The door creaked as I opened it. A wave of nostalgia hit me like a gust of wind. I stepped inside slowly, letting my eyes adjust. It was so beautiful, her pictures were everywhere, her smile frozen in time. The scent of old books and lavender still lingered faintly in the air.
I smiled sadly at a portrait of her holding me as a baby. That smile... that warmth. Mama was so beautiful. I missed her too much.
I walked around the small room, running my fingers along the spines of her books. Then I noticed a worn leather Bible with the numbers "1611" embossed in gold. It looked older than anything else in the attic. Curious, I opened it expecting to see her name or some scribbled notes.
Instead, an envelope slipped out and landed on the dusty floor.
My name was written on it.
Confused, I picked it up and carefully unfolded the paper inside. It was a letter. From… Mama?
The handwriting was unmistakable elegant, yet warm.
Tears blurred my vision as I began to read.
She wrote that she wasn't my biological mother but she had loved me fiercely, completely, from the moment she held me. She said that she hadn't told me because she didn't want me to feel different or unloved. She explained that she had promised Papa they'd tell me together… when the time was right.
But she died before that moment came.
My hands trembled. My whole body began to shake. My head spun with questions.
Why had Papa never told me? Why keep this a secret? Was he even my real father?
The memories I cherished, the bedtime stories, the smiles they all suddenly felt... hollow.
I sat there on the attic floor, broken. The tears came fast and hot. I tried wiping them with my handkerchief but let out a loud sneeze it was dusty, of course. I laughed bitterly through my tears and wiped my nose with my hand, frustration bubbling in my chest.
I had to talk to Papa.
Then, almost on cue, I heard a familiar honk outside.
Papa.
Why was he back so soon?
Bang! The car door slammed. I stood up, heart pounding, and walked slowly to the main entrance. I heard his keys jingle as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, shutting it quickly behind him.
He looked startled to see me standing there. His eyes darted from my face to the attic stairs behind me.
His voice was low. "You've been in the attic."
I nodded slowly. My voice cracked. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
He looked away, jaw tight. His hands trembled slightly as he dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. "I… I was going to. I just didn't know how. I wanted to protect you."
I stepped forward. "Protect me from what? Mama she wasn't even my real mother? And you are you… are you my father?"
Papa sat down on the edge of the couch, rubbing his face with his hands. The silence was thick.
"I am your father," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's not as simple as you think."
I sat down across from him, heart racing.
He took a deep breath. "Your mother and I weren't able to have children. We tried for years. She was heartbroken. I thought about adoption, but Wumi... she didn't want a child that didn't feel like her own. She wanted to be there from the start."
I listened, not sure what to feel. The tears were gathering once more.
He continued. "Then one night, I came home late from work. I was a medical assistant back then. There was a baby you left at the hospital doors in a woven basket. No note. Nothing."
I gasped. "What? Someone abandoned me?"
He nodded slowly. "We never found out who. I brought you home that night. I didn't even thinkI just... I saw you and I knew. Wumi held you once and that was it. You were hers. Ours."
She told everyone you were hers. Only a few of us knew the truth, me, her sister, and our pastor. Wumi was adamant that you never feel different. She loved you more than I've ever seen anyone love another human being."
I smiled bitterly as I thought of all the memories we shared, her warm hugs, the stories at bedtime, how she'd sing to me when I was sick.
Papa leaned forward, reaching out to wipe the tears trickling down my face. "When your Mama got sick… she made me promise that I'd tell you the truth. She even wrote that letter in case she didn't get the chance."
I pulled the letter from my pocket and placed it on the table between us.
"I just… I couldn't bring myself to tell you. Every time I tried, I'd see your face and I'd hear her voice. I was a coward."
His eyes filled with tears.
"I was scared you'd hate me. That you'd think none of it was real. But it was real. Every second of it."
I sat in silence, my heart heavy, my head spinning.
"Do you know anything about… my birth mother?" I asked quietly.
He shook his head. "No. The hospital checked the cameras. No one ever came forward. The only thing we know is that she wanted you to be safe. She left you at a place where you'd be found."
A part of me ached for that woman whoever she was. Another part of me was still reeling from everything I'd just heard.
I looked at Papa. His shoulders were hunched, older somehow. He had been carrying this weight for so long.
"She loved me?" I whispered.
His voice cracked. "With her whole heart. She may not have given birth to you, but you were always her daughter."
I stood up and walked over to him. He looked up, eyes glistening with regret. I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his shoulder.
We sat like that for a while father and daughter, tangled in a truth that changed everything and nothing all at once.
Eventually, I whispered, "Thank you. For choosing me. For loving me. Even if it was messy."
He held me tighter. "I'd choose you again a thousand times."
And in that moment, I realized something.
Family isn't always blood. It's not always tied to genetics or birthrights. Sometimes, it's who chooses to stay. Who loves you fiercely, even when it's hard.
As the sun set and the room turned dark, I knew that nothing would ever be the same.
But somehow, I also knew I was going to be okay.