when you find the rapist/your biological father

spend twenty-nine years wondering who your father is.

resent your friends for their nuclear families. search out approval from every semi-authoritative dude you meet. imagine your step-father treats you like he does his actual kids. wonder about if you have other siblings. grandparents? imagine a life where you’re surrounded by love on all sides and your mother doesn’t have to compensate for everyone who’s missing.

take a DNA test.

spend two days and $40 searching genealogical databases to complete every missing link.

learn his name.

robert.

find out you have eight siblings. find out their names. look at them on facebook. look at their big smiles and the way their arms drape across each other’s shoulders. look at your nieces and nephews, and regret you weren’t there for any of it.

reach out to your brother. he has your nose. he has your eyes.

he’s your brother.

send him a long message explaining who you are. explain to him how you’ve been missing this whole part of you for so long, and how it was like something clicked when you saw the resemblance.

say it: you’re my brother.

wait twenty minutes for him to reply.

read his reply.

“Probably are. Sounds like my Dad”

stare at his reply.

remind yourself that your dad is a rapist.

remind yourself that even though you ached and pined for twenty-nine fucking years, you were never once missed.

go to sleep.

tomorrow, try not to dwell on it. and the next day, think about it even less. and one day soon, maybe you won’t miss them either.

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