When my son told me he wanted to meet my father, the man who threw me out at seventeen, my stomach dropped. I hadn’t spoken to my father in eighteen years—not since the night he turned his back on me and said, “Do it on your own.” I thought that chapter of my life was closed
forever. But as my son stood there, calm and certain, I realized some stories don’t end where we think they do—they just wait for the right person to finish them. Continue reading…
