People sometimes ask me if I remember the day I found out my dad wasn’t my biological father.
The honest answer is…
No.
Not because I’m forgetting.
Because, as strange as it may sound, I don’t think there was ever a moment that mattered enough for my heart to remember.
Growing up, I knew my sister Annetta and I had a different last name than my sisters Mary Ann and Rose Marie.
I knew it.
But I never questioned it.
I never sat around wondering why.
I never thought about what it meant.
It was simply…
Life.
Looking back now, I think that’s because my dad never gave me a reason to question whether I belonged.
He never treated Annetta or me differently.
Not once.
There wasn’t a line between “his girls” and “the other girls.”
To him…
We were all his daughters.
And to me…
He was my daddy.
That’s all that ever mattered.
People sometimes say blood is thicker than water.
I understand what they’re trying to say.
But my life taught me something different.
Love is thicker than blood.
Love is what sat across the table with tears in its eyes on my sixteenth birthday.
Love is what worked overtime so four little girls could wake up to magical Christmas mornings.
Love is what taught me how to stack firewood, work hard, and believe in myself.
Love is what stood in the front yard and watched with pride as I left to serve in the United States Navy.
Love is what never once made me feel like I was anything less than completely his.
Annetta and I may not have shared his DNA.
But we shared his heart.
And in the end…
That’s the inheritance that mattered most.
