I drove to the house I had been exiled from. I sat the three of them down in the living room—the museum of a life that never existed. I told them the truth as gently as a man could. I told them we weren’t related by blood, but that I was their father by choice, and that choice was permanent.
Marcus, who was already so much like the man I thought I was, stood up and hugged me. He told me he didn’t care about DNA. He told me I was his dad.
Two years have passed. Lenora lost the house and her reputation, eventually taking a plea deal for misdemeanor fraud. Dennis moved across the country; I haven’t spoken to him since the day in the diner, and I never will. But the kids are okay. We have a modest apartment, and we have the truth. Last Father’s Day, Marcus gave me a card he drew himself. It showed the four of us as stick figures. Inside, he wrote: “Thank you for staying when you had every reason to leave.”
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