I was eight when I found my father.
It was one of those afternoons when my mother and I toured the mall without buying anything, just looking around.
A fundraiser was taking place to support the elderly in the aftermath of a hurricane.
Then he walked on stage.
His face was so familiar that my breath caught. And he moved with confidence while remaining nice. Perhaps it was the small, prominent birthmark on his chin, which I also have.
“Mom! Mom! That’s him! That’s my dad!”
She turned, her face open, and relaxed until she noticed him. Then she drained all of her color.
“Nathan,” she said sharply. “No.”
Unfortunately, it was too late. In my young mind, this man was my father, and I wasn’t going to let him go.
My legs moved before my brain could keep up. I heard my mother call me, her voice rising in panic, but I could not stop.
I approached the stage, my chest heaving and my little hands grabbing the fabric of his jacket.
“Dad,” I choked out. “Is it really you?”
He crouched slightly to meet me at eye level. His hand, warm and steady, rested on mine.
“We’ll talk in a minute, okay?” he said softly.
When he finally stepped down, I grabbed his jacket again.
“Are you my dad?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He did not respond right away. Instead, he straightened, his attention traveling from me to my mother.
“I’m sorry, but do I know you?” he asked her, his voice quiet, careful.
“I’m so sorry, sir. We should go.”
But he didn’t let her.
“Can we talk in private?”
A volunteer approached, offering to take me away while they spoke.
“Come on, sweetheart, let’s give them some room,” she said. “My grandson looks just like you!”
I didn’t want to go, but my mother gave me the look that meant I shouldn’t dispute.
I wasn’t sure what he said to her.
I couldn’t sleep the night after going to the mall.
I shifted to my side, observing the sliver of light under my bedroom door. Mom was still awake.
“Mom?” I called.
“When will I see him again?”
“Things like this… they’re complicated, Nathan.”
“Do you know him?” I frowned.
“No, sweetheart,” she shook her head. “But he was very kind.”
Nonetheless, she did not say no. And that was enough to keep me hopeful.
A few months later, my mother informed me that a friend was coming over. I didn’t think much of it till the door opened and he walked in.
“Hey there, Nathan,” he said. “I’m Steven.”
But I still did not know the truth. Not till ten years later.
On my eighteenth birthday, my mother and Steven sat me down.
Their hands were already wrapped together, with fingers interlaced. A team.
Steven was not my biological father. When I was younger, he had taken on the position because he wanted to. There was no blood involved.
“Why did you do it?” I asked. “That day at the mall. Why didn’t you just say no and walk away?”
“I looked at you,” he continued. “And I couldn’t bring myself to walk away. I couldn’t be that man, even if I wasn’t really your father.”
“He told me,” she said. “Steven told me that he wanted to be there. Not to replace anyone. Not to lie to you. Just to show up. To be what you needed. However, you needed it.”
Steven hadn’t left our side since my mother first introduced him as her buddy. He was always there, dragging us along to his fundraising events and working at soup kitchens and animal shelters.
And when they married and he moved in, it was as if he had always belonged to us.
That day at the mall, I believed I had located my biological father.
But fate provided me with the exact one I needed.
