While selling my late mother’s belongings at a flea market, an older man recognized a pendant I’d displayed. He revealed he had gifted an identical one to a woman named Martha—my mother. As he left, I discreetly took a strand of hair from his coat, later submitting it for a DNA test. The results confirmed he was my father.
When I confronted him, Jackson was shocked and defensive. “What do you want from me?” he demanded. His teenage daughter, Julia, encouraged me to return the next day.
When I did, Jackson apologized, explaining he hadn’t known about my existence. My mother had ended their relationship when he wanted to move abroad, never telling him she was pregnant.
Through shared memories and my mother’s journal, we began to rebuild connections. Jackson admitted his regrets, and for the first time, I found the family I never knew I was missing.
