I never knew my mother. The only family I had was my dad, Greg. He was the one who worked two jobs, packed my lunches, and cheered at my games. He was my whole world. So when a woman showed up at my door 22 years later claiming to be my mother, Jessica, my first feeling wasn’t joy—it was confusion. She didn’t hug me or say she was sorry. She just handed me an envelope. Inside was a DNA test that said the man who raised me wasn’t my biological father.
For a second, my whole world tilted. But as I looked at her, I realized her eyes weren’t searching for me; they were scanning my house, my things. She had paperwork with her, hints that she wanted a piece of my company, LaunchPad—a business I built without her help, her love, or her presence. In that moment, the DNA result didn’t matter. What mattered was the dad who never left. What mattered was a childhood filled with love, not absence.
I told her no. I chose my dad. We ended up in court, where a judge saw right through her. Not only did she not get a dime, but she was ordered to pay back child support. It was a painful chapter, but it taught me everything about what family really means. It’s not about who gave you their DNA; it’s about who gave you their time, their sacrifice, and their heart. Today, I’m using my story to help other kids who were left behind, because everyone deserves someone who stays.
