That night I sat on the porch wearing Michael’s old flannel shirt and slipped on a macaroni bracelet I had made for him in the second grade. I realized that my stepfather hadn’t just raised me; he had shielded me from a bitter tug-of-war so I could have a happy childhood. I texted Frank to thank him for the truth and spoke into the quiet night, acknowledging that Michael had saved me in more ways than I ever knew. I decided then that I would file the paperwork to restore his name on my birth certificate, ensuring that the man who chose me would legally be my father forever.
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