My mother died the day I was born. My father chose another woman over me. He n…

My mother died the day I was born.

My father chose another woman over me. He never called. Never wrote.

One day, when I was just seven, he took me by the hand and brought me to a woman’s home. He smiled and said, “Go inside, buddy. I’m coming back in ten minutes — just going to buy some food for you.”

I believed him.
I waited.
But he never came back.

That woman was my stepmother. She could have called the police. She could have sent me to a foster home. But she didn’t. Instead, she opened her heart. She raised me as her own. She gave me love when I had no one.

Now, I’m in my 40s. Every weekend, I come to see her. And in this picture… you can see it — her walking towards me, and me walking towards her.

This is love.
Not by blood… but by choice. And sometimes, that’s the purest kind there is.
Credit to the rightful owner~