When I turned nine, I found a knitted sweater on our porch. Mom cried when she saw it, but Dad assumed it was from an old neighbor. I had no idea it would hold a secret for eleven years.
Yesterday, after Dad passed away, Mom handed me the sweater again. “Look inside,” she said. Hidden in the seam was a yellowed note that read:
“He isn’t who you think he is. Ask your mother about New Hampshire. – J.”
My heart dropped. Mom finally told me the truth: the man I grew up calling Dad—Tom—had chosen to raise me, but he wasn’t my biological father. My birth father, Jonah, struggled with bipolar disorder and left when I was a baby because he feared hurting me. A year later, the sweater arrived. Mom kept it as the last sign he ever sent.
I thought that was the end of the story—until I looked him up.
A small-town blog in New Hampshire mentioned a quiet artist named Jonah who knitted scarves for shelters. I reached out. A woman replied: Jonah had died five years ago… but he always talked about a daughter named Lila. He carried a photo of me in his wallet.
I went to his town, visited his bench, met people he had helped. They all said the same thing: he loved deeply, even from afar.
Before I left, I donated scarves in his name. At home, I framed the note and placed it beside Dad’s photo—because both men loved me, each in their own way.
Some people leave out of love. Others stay out of love. If you’re lucky, you get both.
