When I was young, my mom tucked me in with a quilt featuring a mismatched plaid patch. After her passing, I found a photo of her with an unknown man, dated April 1989, three months before my birth, and a note hinting at a past love. Mom raised me alone, never mentioning my father, only saying he “wasn’t in the picture.” Digging through her belongings, I found letters from Dominic in Brighton Hill, Wisconsin, revealing their affair. He was married with a child, and their love ended with Mom’s choice to part ways. The quilt’s patch matched a fabric swatch Dominic kept.
Seeking answers, I visited Brighton Hill. Dominic’s widow, Robyn, confirmed their affair but said he never mentioned a child. She gave me a box with the same plaid fabric. Later, I contacted Elian, Dominic’s son—my half-brother. We met, bonded over shared traits, and have stayed in touch. The quilt’s patch symbolizes my mom’s sacrifice and love’s complexity. Family, I learned, is about those who choose connection, not just blood.
