#Motivation for #forgiveness, My father k*lled my mother Storytime | #gramxo

https://youtu.be/4Fc7qr7SOqc

Gather 'round, dear listener, and hear this tale of bravery and strength, of letting go of fear and learning the 

power of forgiveness. It's a story about moving past sorrow, finding self-love, and discovering that happiness is 

born from mistakes and growth.

This is a tale for the hardworking man, who toils all day, then comes home to lift his family up, offering his 

strength and support—both body and soul.

A tale for the woman, who gives endlessly from morning to night—nourishing her loved ones with food, love, and 

care, while balancing the weight of the world on her shoulders.

A tale for the college student, far from home, navigating the challenges of life and striving to make their mark, 

with dreams in their heart and lessons to learn.

A tale for those who feel lost—without family, without friends, without a place to call their own.

And above all, this is a tale for me—a story I share with you, for we all walk similar paths in search of hope, 

resilience, and love.

I reach for the glass of iced water the host offers me.

As my fingers touch the cool glass, I hear footsteps.

He walks in from the kitchen area—a small nook in the corner, just a fridge, a stove, and a few shabby cabinets. 

One dangles off its hinge…

And I’m surprised—he can walk.

After all, I read he’d been in two car accidents.

one caused by me.

He clears his throat.

I pretend to be caught off guard.

Questions rise in my throat, heavy and urgent. But I swallow them, avoiding his gaze.

I had shown up unannounced.

Knocked on the door.

Asked for his name.

Introduced myself using the name given to me at birth.

A name I hadn’t used in years.

I stepped into his home without warning.

And still, he welcomed me.

No questions.

No hesitation.

Not knowing why I came—

…when I’m not even sure I know myself.

For years, I imagined this moment.

Meeting him—

The last living piece of my family.

My father.

The man who killed my mother.

The man because of whom I was born through an emergency C-section.

The man who ruined everything.

My life hasn’t been kind.

Foster homes since I was a baby.

I was told my mother died before I was born—stabbed to death by this man.

He’s been incarcerated my whole life.

No mother.

No father.

No aunts.

No uncles.

And yet, DNA records from the prison system identified him as—my father.

Was I an only child?

Why did he kill her?

She was eight months pregnant with me.

I want to know.

Where is my family?

Do I even want to know them?

Are they like him?

Can I even forgive him?

I want answers.

My job gave me access to medical records.

I shouldn’t have done it—

Submitted my DNA.

But I did.

And I found a match.

I read his case.

Studied every detail.

He was released on good behavior.

I was angry he was free…

and somehow relieved.

I’m battling questions.

Unhappy that I need answers.

I was happy in college.

It was hard, but I made it.

I studied business ethics—

I know I shouldn't be here.

How will I explain where the proof came from?

That he is my father?

I am the child no one claimed.

Mother killed and stabbed in the belly

I remember staring into mirrors,

wondering why I never looked like anyone I lived with.

Why I always felt like an outsider.

When the checks stopped coming…

some would at least say it was time to go.

New house.

New school.

New teachers to memorize.

I always packed light.

People became so temporary.

I stopped learning names.

No one kept me.

No one wanted me.

One even called me income.

I used to lie awake in basement rooms…

or in overcrowded spaces with other kids,

waiting.

Hoping for somewhere to call home.

But I didn’t complain much.

I saw kids locked in closets,

beaten,

starved.

afraid to interfere, or I would get beatens again, too.

My clothes were hand-me-downs.

My grades?

Just enough to survive until high school.

I moved so often, nothing ever felt like mine.

So I turned inward.

Studied harder.

Reading longer, hours after hours, sometimes the same book.

Weekends, I lived in the library.

Learning about life.

Love.

Faith.

War.

I was drawn to war—

because it felt like me.

Constant conflict.

Internal chaos.

A soul in survival mode.

I wondered—

Did my mom feel like this?

Alone in her fight carrying me?

Some nights, my thoughts got dark.

Too dark.

And I scared myself.

I was at war with myself.

Forgetting I needed to be my own friend.

I searched for love in strangers.

Never once thought to love myself.

I overthought everything.

And in doing so,

I ruined what little peace I had.

But still… I made it.

I graduated college.

I saved money.

I bought a house.

Worked long hours.

Followed every rule—

Afraid of becoming invisible.

Like the people who created me… and disappeared.

And now—here I am.

Water in hand, ice melted,

in a house I never thought I’d find.

Looking at the man who might hold the answers

to questions I’ve carried my whole life…

But I’m afraid.

Afraid to ask.

Afraid of what I’ll find.

Afraid that after all this time—

I was never wanted.

Maybe I still don’t know what I’m looking for.

I’m scared to have kids of my own.

If I die and they’re left with no mother…

Will they live my life all over again?

I stop myself from spiraling.

His voice pulls me back.

He clears his throat again.

Brings me into the moment.

He asks, How can I help you?

I stare at him.

And in his face…

I see myself.

Older. Broken. Familiar.

And I say— listen to hear more