When I was 7, “Santa” left a Gameboy on our doorstep, wrapped in a blue blanket.

My parents had no idea who gave it, but I remember Mom tearing up. Dad thought it was from a family friend.

Last year, after Dad passed, Mom confessed the truth: the Gameboy was from my biological father, who had flown in from abroad to meet me but couldn’t.

He left it as a gift, knowing I’d never know it was from him. The blanket was from a brief fling with my mom.

Nearly 20 years later, I finally understand. I’m not sure I can forgive my mom, but I’m thankful I didn’t know then.

My dad, the man who raised me, was the best father I could’ve had, and I wouldn’t have wanted him to feel betrayed.

When I was seven years old, a mysterious event unfolded on Christmas morning that has stayed with me ever since. I remember waking up to a Gameboy sitting on our doorstep, wrapped snugly in a blue blanket. There was no note, no name, just the surprise of a gift that made my young heart race with excitement. My parents were as shocked as I was. My mom’s eyes filled with tears as she held the blanket, and my dad speculated it must have come from a generous family friend. I didn’t question it further; Santa had come through in the most magical way.

That Gameboy became my prized possession, accompanying me through countless afternoons of pixelated adventures. I had no idea that it carried a story far deeper than I could have imagined. It wasn’t until last year, nearly 20 years later, that I learned the truth.

After my dad passed away, my mom sat me down one evening, her expression heavy with the weight of a secret she’d been carrying. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she began, her voice trembling. “That Gameboy… it wasn’t from Santa, or a family friend. It was from your biological father.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I had never known my biological father; my dad—the man who had raised me—was the only father I’d ever needed. As my mom explained, she revealed that my biological father had flown in from abroad that Christmas. He’d wanted to meet me but couldn’t bring himself to disrupt my life. Instead, he left the Gameboy as a gift, along with the blue blanket that had once been part of a fleeting connection between him and my mom.

For years, my mom had kept this secret, shielding me from a truth she thought might confuse or hurt me. And for years, I had unknowingly cherished a gift from a man I never met, thinking it was a simple act of Christmas magic. Now, with the full story in my hands, I felt a whirlwind of emotions—gratitude, sadness, and even a tinge of betrayal.

I’m still not sure how to reconcile it all. I can’t entirely forgive my mom for keeping such a significant truth from me, but I also understand why she did. She wanted to protect me and preserve the bond I had with the man who raised me—the man who was my real dad in every way that mattered. He was the one who taught me to ride a bike, who stayed up late helping me with school projects, who cheered the loudest at my games. He was the one who made me feel safe and loved.

Looking back now, I’m thankful I didn’t know the truth as a child. It would have complicated feelings that didn’t need to be complicated. My dad deserved to be the hero of my childhood, unshadowed by the presence of someone who couldn’t be there. And yet, I can’t help but feel a strange, distant connection to the man who left that Gameboy, a gesture of love from afar.

Nearly 20 years later, the Gameboy still sits in my drawer, a relic of my childhood and a symbol of the unseen complexities of family. It’s a reminder of two fathers: one who gave me life and one who gave me everything else.