At the funeral, my mom placed a faded, well-worn jacket in my hands and muttered, “This is what he wanted you to have.” To me, it felt like a cruel reminder of the love I had pushed away. I shoved it in the back of my closet and tried not to think about it.

Years later, while sorting through old clothes, I pulled the jacket out, intending to give it away.

Absentmindedly, I slipped my hand into the pocket—and froze. Inside was a folded note and a creased photo of me as a little kid, grinning with a gap-toothed smile. My hands trembled as I unfolded the paper.

It read: “Even if you never call me ‘Dad,’ raising you has been the greatest privilege of my life. I’m proud of you, and I’ll love you forever. – Mark.”

Tears blurred my vision as regret hit me like a wave. In that moment, I finally understood: family isn’t always defined by bl00d. It’s defined by the people who stay, who love, who fight for us no matter what.

I can’t take back the years I held him at a distance, but I now carry his love with me every single day—living in a way that honors the man who was, in every sense that mattered, my father.

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