My Mother Hated Me for Looking Like My Biological Father, but Everything Changed When I Finally Found Him
“Did Your Mother Forget to Tell You?”
My whole life, my mom hated me.
Not disliked. Hated.
While my sisters got tucked into bed, got birthday parties and kisses, I got silence — or worse, cold words and slammed doors. I didn’t look like her, or my so-called dad, and that only deepened the resentment in her eyes.
At 14, I’d had enough of the mystery, the pain, the constant aching question in my chest: *Why don’t I belong?*
I saved every penny from babysitting, collecting cans, doing homework for classmates — and bought a DNA test.
I never planned for anyone to know. It was just for me. Something to give my broken brain an answer.
But a few days later, I came downstairs and saw my dad — the man I *thought* was my dad — holding an envelope.
He didn’t say “good morning.”
He didn’t smile.
He held up the envelope and snapped, “What’s THIS, and why is it in your name?”
I froze.
Then I told the truth.
Before I could even reach for it, he tore it open and read.
His face went white. His hands trembled. Then—he **lost it**.
He didn’t say a word to me. Just turned, grabbed his keys, and left.
He never came back.
And I thought — I *foolishly* thought — that maybe with him gone, my mom might soften. She didn’t.
She *hardened*.
“You RUINED OUR LIVES!” she screamed that night. “You should’ve NEVER been born!”
From then on, she made it her mission to punish me.
She said I could **only eat the food I paid for**. So, at 14, I got a job washing dishes after school.
Then she started **charging me rent**.
At 16, I was paying to live in the home where I was unwanted.
Years passed. I kept my head down, worked hard, got scholarships, and when I turned 20, I’d had enough.
I wanted to find my real dad.
I *deserved* to know who he was.
I demanded the truth. She laughed bitterly. “He hates you as much as I do,” she said.
But eventually, she gave me a name. An address. That was all I needed.
I took a bus across three cities. Got off and stared at a small white house with peeling paint and flowers in the front.
My heart thudded in my chest. *Was this it?*
I walked up, hand shaking, and knocked.
The door creaked open.
A man in his 40s, tired eyes, stubbled jaw. He froze when he saw me.
“Hi, I’m…” I began.
He interrupted, eyes narrowing. “Wait. I know who you are. What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to find my family. My…dad,” I said, forcing a smile.
He sighed. “Oh, wait. Did your mother forget to tell you?”
I blinked. “Tell me…what?”
He looked away, then back at me with something between guilt and anger.
“She told me she had an abortion. Twenty years ago. She said you didn’t exist.”
The silence hit like thunder.
My chest tightened. “What?”
“She told me she got rid of you,” he said quietly. “She disappeared after. I searched. But I never found anything. I figured she was lying just to hurt me, but… I gave up.”
We stood there. A chasm of lost years between us.
“I’m so sorry,” he said finally. “Come in. Please.”
And that moment?
That was the first time someone had ever said those words to me — not out of obligation, but out of genuine remorse.
That day, I stepped into a stranger’s home and found something I never had before:
The beginning of a real family. The kind that wanted me.