My son Tommy started sending letters in bottles when he was four—hoping his father, who left before he was born, would find him. I let him believe his dad was a lost sailor instead of telling him the truth: he abandoned us.
Every year, Tommy wrote faithfully. At ten, he nearly gave up—his classmates mocked him, and hope was fading. I encouraged him to send one last letter. He did.
On his birthday, just as he’d stopped believing, a man appeared in a sailor costume—my friend Sam. He’d heard Tommy’s story and stepped in, hoping to give him hope. But I was furious. He didn’t have the right.
Then another man arrived—Daniel. Tommy’s real father. He’d seen a photo of the bottle online and recognized my handwriting. He claimed he never got my letter ten years ago. His parents had hidden it. He wanted a second chance.
The two men fought. Both wanted to claim a place in Tommy’s heart. I stopped them. Tommy wasn’t a prize to be won.
I told them to leave.
Being a father isn’t about showing up once. It’s about being chosen. And Tommy deserves to decide that—not them.
