Christmas Eve always weighed heavy on me. After a grueling double night shift at the ER, I slid into a taxi, too exhausted to care. When I woke, I wasn’t home — I was in a cold, abandoned garage, the driver gone, and a stranger looming in the shadows.
“Who are you?” I asked, voice trembling.
The man stepped into the dim light, calm but serious. “Megan Price, right? I’m your father.”
I laughed bitterly. “My father? You don’t know me.”
He looked down, ashamed. “Your boyfriend made it all up. But I have proof.” He handed Jeremy’s crumpled envelope — a DNA test.
Jeremy, my boyfriend of four years, had secretly searched for my family. My mother died young, and I grew up in an orphanage, knowing nothing about my dad. Jeremy hired detectives, followed leads, and found this man — who had no idea I existed.
“He didn’t know until recently,” Jeremy said softly. “After your mother left you at the orphanage, she never told him.”
The man’s eyes welled up. “I didn’t believe it at first, but seeing you now…” His voice broke.
I felt the old ache—years without a family, an empty Christmas chair. “You were never there,” I whispered.
“I can’t change the past,” he said, voice raw. “But if you let me, I want to be here now.”
Jeremy squeezed my hand, steadying me.
I met the stranger’s hopeful gaze. “I don’t know if I can call you Dad yet… but I want to try.”
A tear slid down his cheek as the Christmas lights cast a warm glow. For the first time, I stepped toward something new — a father, a family, a future.
