The Hug I’m Still Waiting For

I was two when my father left. At that age, you barely understand the world, let alone why someone who gave your life would choose to walk away from it. I grew up in the care of my mother and a stepfather who did what he could. But even in the warmth of a home, I always felt the chill of being "someone else's child." My relatives looked at me differently. I was blood, but I wasn’t fully family. A shadow of a man who had vanished without a trace.