Parenting has a way of blindsiding you. Like when my teenage son recognized a news anchor and said, “Dad… I think he’s my real father.”
Turns out, he was right.
Years earlier, during a short breakup, my wife had a fling with that anchor. She never told him about the pregnancy. When we reunited, I became Dorian’s dad—no questions asked.
But when DNA proved I wasn’t his biological father, Dorian wanted answers. He tracked down the anchor, Preston Vale, who met him just once—then shut him out. “I have a family now,” he said. “This isn’t my problem.”
I’ll never forget Dorian’s face that night, asking, “Why doesn’t he want me?”
I held him tight. “Because I got the better deal,” I said. “I got you.”
Years later, Dorian stood before his graduating class and said, “Family isn’t about blood. It’s about who shows up.”
He’s a teacher now, helping kids who’ve been let down by adults. And every Father’s Day, I get a letter: “You chose me. That’s everything.”
That’s the secret of parenting. It’s not whose genes you have—it’s whose love you hold.
