Bill is fifteen now. He still lives with us, but he spends weekends at Alyssa’s. He calls me Dad and calls her Mom. Sometimes we all have dinner together, the four of us, sitting around the same table.
It’s strange, sometimes. Unconventional. Not what any of us planned.
But Bill is happy. That’s what matters.
A few weeks ago, Bill came home with a school project. He had to write about someone who inspired him.
He wrote about Liam.
But at the end of the essay, he added a paragraph that made me cry when Hera showed it to me.
“I never really knew my birth father. He died when I was too young to remember him. But I know he was brave and loyal and he laughed louder than anyone. That’s what Edward always told me. And I believe him.
But Edward is my dad. Not because he had to be, but because he chose to be. He raised me when he didn’t have to. He loved me when he could have walked away. And when everything came crashing down, he didn’t let go.
I have two fathers. One gave me life. The other gave me everything else.”
I keep that essay in my desk drawer now.
Right next to the wooden box.
The End
