Who’s My Father? A Daughter’s Search for Truth

My mother is a complex woman, a mystery I’ve spent my whole life trying to understand. Even as I write this, I struggle to find the right words to introduce her. She was born and raised in Jamaica, in a home built on strong values, yet life had a way of pulling her in a different direction.

Her mother, my grandmother, traveled back and forth between Jamaica and America for work, leaving my mother in the care of close relatives. But without the steady presence of her own mother, something in her shifted. She strayed down a path that would change her life forever. At just 14, she became pregnant with her first child and had to leave school behind. By the time her journey unfolded fully, she had seven children, each of us with different fathers, none of whom we truly knew.

Today, I’m sharing something deeply personal, more personal than anything I’ve ever written. For so long, I carried this story in silence, uncertain if I’d ever have the courage to speak it aloud. But here I am, peeling back the layers, hoping that in my truth, someone else might find theirs. Maybe my story will resonate with someone who has carried similar wounds. Maybe it will be a reminder that healing, no matter how distant it seems, is still possible.

The Discovery of the Truth

I found out that Ted was my real dad when I was 12. My mom had given me the last name of the man she was dating, hoping he was my father. She convinced herself of it, despite knowing Ted was my biological dad. But when I was born and my mom saw my lips, she realized I looked like Ted, not the other man. By then, she was already in too deep, and the other man’s family was at the hospital, eager to meet me. I met him twice in my life, but we had no real connection. He helped me here and there, but there was no love or warmth. He was just ‘Dad’, nothing more.

I grew up carrying the label ‘jacket,’ a Jamaican term for a child whose birth certificate names the wrong father. It’s a word that speaks to the confusion and shame surrounding paternity. People saw the resemblance between me and my brother Timmy, Ted’s son, and assumed Ted was my father. As a child, I often heard this, but I never truly understood it. It was just something people said, something I got used to without thinking too deeply about it.

Memories of Ted

While my siblings would go to their dad’s house for the holidays, I’d be left at home, longing to have my dad so I could go to his house as well. I began questioning everything, if my dad really cared for me, why didn’t I remember what he looked like? Why didn’t he come for me or send for me? I saw more of my paternal grandmother than I ever saw of him. She loved me more than he ever did.

I do remember seeing Ted when he came to visit Timmy. I was so young, hiding behind the door and calling out, “Timmy’s father!” as I giggled and ran away. He’d laugh and play along, entertaining me. There were also times when Timmy and I would go to his house, and he’d take us to the beach and buy us anything we wanted, those moments as a child meant a lot to me.

There was one time when I was very young, waiting in the bathroom for Timmy to come and bathe me, but he was busy. Ted walked in, and I hid, giggling. He was always so serious. He sternly said, “Come, I need to bathe you because we’re going to be late.” I also remember when I was in sixth grade, my mom was stressing about the cost of the school books. She didn’t think she could afford them, but I wasn’t worried. I was used to copying from other students’ books since I didn’t have my own.

A few weeks later, my mom came home with all the books I needed. When I asked how she managed, she told me to thank Ted, as he had bought them for me. I was confused, why would he buy my books? But I didn’t question it; I was just happy to have everything I needed for school. I remember feeling independent as I wrote my name in the books, preparing to go back to school, finally having everything I needed.

The Courage To Ask

When I turned 12, I finally built up the courage to confront my mom. Growing up, whenever I spoke out of turn, I would get a beaten, that was a normal part of our culture. So, asking her such an important question wasn’t easy. I was terrified, but I had to know.

One day, while she was sitting and watching TV, I nervously asked, “Mom, why does everyone call me a jacket? They always say I look like Timmy’s twin. Is Ted my father?” She paused, stared at me for a moment, then burst into laughter. I didn’t understand why she laughed, but I was relieved she didn’t yell or punish me. She simply told me, “If you see Ted, you can ask him.” She didn’t confirm or deny it.

That was the end of it, and the matter was dropped until I eventually saw Ted a few months later. At the time, Timmy was living with Ted full-time in another part of the island. We traveled to visit him, and I knew this would be my chance to finally ask Ted the truth. Normally, I loved long road trips, especially because I knew Ted would be cooking up a storm when we arrived.

But on this trip, I was nervous. What if he wasn’t my father? I wondered if I’d be embarrassed after asking such a personal question. And if he was my father, what if he didn’t accept me? He already had his own kids to focus on. As we got closer to his house, I started to convince myself to drop the question. I thought maybe I could live without ever knowing the truth.

Navigating a New Reality

When we arrived, Ted greeted us in the kitchen, as usual, with the smell of food filling the air. I sat across from him, and my mom was standing in the doorway, leaning outside. At first, we were making small talk, but then my mom brought up that I had a question for him. I was so nervous, unsure of how to phrase it. After a moment of silence, I finally blurted, “Everyone always says I look like Timmy, and they call me a jacket. Are you my dad?”

He laughed and simply said, “Yes.”

That was it. He didn’t say anything else. I was left stunned, confused. But in that moment, all I could do was sit there, trying to process it. Eventually, I asked, “Should I call you Dad now?” And once again, they both laughed. Why did they both laugh? Looking back, I wonder if it was because they were nervous. After that day, Ted became more involved in my life. He always made sure I was okay in every way.

I remember asking him, “If you knew I was your child, why didn’t you fight for me?” I wondered how different my life could have been if I’d grown up knowing he was my dad, instead of feeling like I was always fighting for attention and love. I tried to tell myself that he was here now, that the past didn’t matter, but I still had so many questions.

Ted soon realized that the environment I was growing up in, surrounded by my mother’s dangerous lifestyle, wasn’t the best for me. He paid to have me sent to an all-girls boarding school, but when he gave my mother the money for my school fees, she would use it for her own needs. She’d promise to pay it back, but she never could, and I was often turned away from school for unpaid fees. The cycle repeated, and I couldn’t help but feel abandoned by both of them.

A Mother’s Motives

As I got to know Ted, my mom still had me contact my other dad for money. It felt so wrong. I had just found my real dad and was finally happy, but my mom had another agenda. Two weeks after I found out Ted was my dad, she took my sister and Timmy to meet an old Canadian man she claimed was our dad. I told her I was confused, that I thought Ted was my dad. She brushed it off, saying we already knew that, but she needed the money, so I had to go along with it.

We met the man, and my mom told us exactly what to say. He gave us $2000 Jamaican dollars each (about $13 USD). It wasn’t about us, it was all about the money. My mom didn’t care about how this affected us emotionally or what kind of example she was setting. I felt so guilty keeping this from Ted, but as a child, I didn’t know better. I always obeyed my mother, even when I knew deep down it was wrong.

Over time, I started to build a bond with Ted, one I never had growing up. He was there for me, emotionally, physically, and financially. Ted gave me my first talk about boys and sex and was also there when I went to university and felt homesick. No matter the distance between us, he always reminded me how proud he was of me, and we stayed close. Whenever I felt lonely or uncertain, I could always call him, and he was ready to listen. Even with something as small as not knowing how to cook, I could turn to him for guidance, and he’d walk me through every step.

The Struggle for a Father’s Affection

Over the years, he migrated to the U.S. and got married, then everything changed. My relationship with my stepmother was never easy, it felt like a constant battle for my father’s love. She controlled his time, his attention, and even our conversations. If I wanted to be close to him, I had to go through her first.

She prioritized her family over his, making us feel like outsiders in my father’s new life. To be fair, she wasn’t always cruel, there were moments of kindness, moments where she showed tenderness. But when it came to my father, it was a different story. At 22, I finally confronted her, hoping for change. Instead, she hit me with words that shattered me: “You’re too old for a dad. He didn’t give birth to you. He’s your sperm donor.”

I turned to my dad, desperate for him to stand up for me. “Did you hear what she just said?” My voice shook, my eyes filled with tears. But he just stood there, silent, as if her words meant nothing.

Later that day, I told her I didn’t want her at my college graduation which was coming up. She smirked and said, “If I can’t come, then your dad won’t either.” I refused to believe her. “My dad will show up for me.”

She just smiled. “I’m a strong woman, and I always get what I want.”

And in that moment, I knew, I had already lost.

Consumed by Pain

When my stepmother spoke those hurtful words, and my dad did nothing to defend me, I felt unworthy. I don’t have a close relationship with my mom, so my dad meant everything to me. To see him stand there, allowing those words to be spoken over me, made me feel invisible, like I didn’t matter. My dad is the strongest, most God-fearing man I know, my hero. But in that moment, I wondered: How could he let this happen?

That experience sent me into a downward spiral. I carried the weight of those emotions inside me, letting them build up day after day. Eventually, they turned into hate. As the years passed, I fed that hate, letting it grow deeper and deeper. Like a fire, it consumed me, crushing my spirit.

I didn’t realize that holding onto that pain was damaging me in ways I couldn’t see. For years, I lived in sadness, waiting for my dad to fix what was broken inside me. But he never did.

Embracing My Story

I learned to live with the pain, the whispers, the speculation about whether I was really his daughter. I used to feel embarrassed when people realized I didn’t share his last name, terrified of being judged or looked down on.

But over time, I stopped letting the shame define me. I began to accept my past, to see it not as a burden, but as a part of who I am. It shaped me, strengthened me. It’s my story, and I no longer hide from it.

The relationship I had with my dad is a very sensitive topic. The insecurity I felt from not sharing his name and never truly knowing if he was my biological father ran deep. So, when my stepmother spoke those cruel words, it triggered something deep inside me. After all the years I spent trying to hold on to him, trying to be accepted by him, those words felt like a knife to my heart. It made me bitter, and I became someone I didn’t even recognize.

Legal Recognition

Ted always pressured my mom to change my last name, but she always found a way to make excuses. When I finally asked her why, she admitted that she’d taken so much money from my other dad and his family that she feared for her life if the truth came out. As much as I wanted Ted’s name, I understood that not having it was the price I had to pay to protect my mom.

In 2020, after years of waiting, I stood in court and heard the judge read the results: 99.99%—Ted was my father. That day, I cried. I cried not only because I finally had the confirmation I’d yearned for, but for the realization of how deeply I had longed for this moment. It felt like a weight lifted. Yet, despite our shared experiences and his unwavering support, calling Ted “Dad” remains a struggle. Having grown up knowing him as Timmy’s father, the word feels heavier than it should, even now that I know he’s mine.

I’ve always longed to call him “Dad,” but the word doesn’t yet feel natural. My love for him is undeniable, I feel it in his support, his pride, and the way we’re bridging the gap of lost time. I hope it will come easily someday, but until then, I’ll keep trying. The love and connection we’ve built are enough, even if the word is still a little difficult.

Resentment and Questions

For so long, I resented my stepmother. She knew what I went through with my father, how I felt not having his name, and still, when she called him my “sperm donor,” it felt like a stab to the heart. She knew how much it hurt me, and yet she couldn’t understand how much those words could damage the fragile bond I was building with Ted.

I also resented my mom for not giving me his name at birth and for constantly pushing me into relationships with men she wanted me to call “Dad.” “It’s a blessing to have so many fathers,” she’d say, but all I ever wanted was Ted, for him to be my dad, the one who claimed me, the one constant in my life.

Forgiving her wasn’t easy. I was her last-born daughter, how could she say she loved me when she knowingly deprived me of one of the most important relationships in my life? And the worst part? My father was always within reach, yet I never had a clue. To me, he was just Timmy’s father, never realizing he was mine as well. She had given the wrong father to most of her kids, now that she was older and supposedly wiser, why would she put me through the same pain? Had she learned nothing from her past? It felt like I was doomed to be emotionally scarred before I was even born.

Journey to Healing

It took a long time, but I eventually realized something life-changing: only God could heal me. I had to learn to forgive, to let go of the hurt, and to trust that He would restore my heart. Finding peace in God allowed me to let go of the hurt and pain I carried for so long.

Colossians 3:13 says, Forgive as the Lord forgave you

When I first read those words, they cut deep. God forgives us unconditionally, despite our flaws and mistakes. If He can forgive me for everything I’ve done, then surely I can find the strength to forgive others. I’ve learnt that forgiveness isn’t about the other person, it’s about setting myself free from bitterness and pain. I’ve learnt that people will hurt us, but we can’t let that define who we are. The weight of those negative emotions had been holding me down, but now I feel light and free. We’re all human, capable of mistakes and growth, and forgiveness is part of that growth. I now free from the weight of those negative emotions I stored up.

Today, I am at peace with my stepmother. Through time, growth, and God’s word, I have forgiven her and found freedom. I spent years holding onto pain, years I can never get back. But I have learned the power of forgiveness and the danger of storing up anger.

No matter how broken we feel, God has the power to restore us. And that is the truth I hold onto today. Letting go doesn’t erase the past, but it opens the door to a future filled with peace and healing. Forgiveness isn’t about excusing the hurt; it’s about freeing yourself from it and allowing God to restore what was broken. My relationship with my mom is still healing, but I hold on to hope. Healing takes time, but with God’s guidance, I know it’s possible.

If you’re struggling to forgive, know that you’re not alone. Forgiveness takes time, but it brings true freedom. Check out this post for some tips to help you on your journey: [here].