My Stepmom Raised Me After My Dad Died When I Was 6 – Years Later, I Found the Letter He Wrote the Night Before His Death
That small act reassured me that I still belonged.
When my brother came along two years after that, I was the one holding the bottle while Meredith finally got a chance to shower.
By the time I hit 20, I thought I had my life story figured out. It was a bit tragic, sure, but the facts were clear.
One mother died giving me life. One father had until a random accident took him away. One stepmother stepped up and became the anchor I needed. Simple.
But that nagging curiosity never really went away.
I thought I had my life story figured out.
I kept looking in the mirror, wondering where I belonged.
“Do I look like him?” I asked Meredith one night while she was doing dishes.
She nodded. “You have his eyes.”
“What about her?”
Meredith dried her hands slowly. “You get your dimples from her, and your beautiful curly hair.”
There was something in her voice… a carefulness.
It felt like she was walking on eggshells, and I couldn’t figure out why.
I kept looking in the mirror, wondering where I belonged.
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