A few years ago, my mom found out that her father wasn’t her father. She and my uncle had taken a DNA test and it turned out he was her half-brother.
The relationship between my mom and grandma was already strained, so this bomb basically destroyed what little bit of communication still existed between them. On the few occasions they did speak, it always resulted in my mom insisting on knowing who her real father is and my grandmother insisting that either the DNA results are wrong or the hospital gave her the wrong baby.
While this revelation tore my mom up inside, it didn’t affect me at all. (Cue the stages of grief…)
I had never known her father… my grandmother had remarried by the time I was born and I had always thought of my mother’s stepfather as my grandfather. Even when my grandma divorced and remarried again, I considered her new husband my new grandfather. (I’m pretty adaptable that way I guess.)
I barely let any of it bother me and continued on with my life. After all, what did any of this have to do with me?
Whenever I visited either of them, I listened as my mom and grandma berated each other and recounted their side of the story over and over again. Each defended themselves as if I was the judge & jury and they were trying to avoid the electric chair. Still, it barely registered as a slight annoyance on my “things I’m going to stress about today” meter.
Then the day came when I got this text:
Call me. I have a dad.