A blog by A.L. Childers
“Some people are born into love. Some have to find it, borrow it, or be rescued by it. Me? I was blessed by uncles who filled the cracks with gold.”
—A.L. Childers
I wasn’t born into a love story. I was born into a riddle.
A riddle wrapped in confusion, half-truths, and one very complicated woman—my mother.
I was born without a father.
Not metaphorically—literally.
There was no man in the waiting room. No doting husband holding a camera. No signature on my birth certificate. Just my mother, her stories, and eventually… my questions.
And when I asked who my father was, she handed me three names like she was picking lotto numbers.
“It’s either him… or maybe him… or possibly that guy from Fort Bragg.”
One of them, she said, had my exact birthmark—on my chin and on my butt. Yes, I checked. Apparently, that’s how paternity was confirmed in our family: not by DNA, but by matching skin stamps.
Another man I tracked down years later. He was married to a girl my age and had a house full of kids. He said on the call while his young wife was in the background yelling, “I’m not your father.” I told him, “Good—because I was about to ask for backdated birthday gifts and college tuition.”
And the third? He was just “around.” Whatever that means in mom-speak.
But here’s the kicker: my mother is a dream-talker. She tells stories that melt into each other. Truth and fiction hold hands in her mind. One version becomes another before you’ve even had time to process the first. She speaks with such confidence that even the lies sound poetic.
Three Possible Fathers and One Birthmark
When I look back on those moments now, I don’t feel angry—I feel untethered. Like a balloon that never had a string. But somewhere in the background, there were people trying to ground me. Trying to hold me steady.
They just weren’t the people you might expect.
A House I Could Have Called Home
If there’s one memory that haunts me—not because it happened, but because it almost did—it’s the moment I wasn’t adopted by Uncle John.
When I was a baby—with a clubfoot and a mother already struggling with a five-year-old son—my Uncle John and his wife Vickie offered to adopt me. They had two sons already but longed for a daughter to complete their family. Vickie was a nurse, kind and capable. Uncle John worked for Frito-Lay as a delivery driver. They had a loving home, a loyal dog, and more than enough room in their hearts.
They wanted me.
They chose me.
But my mother said no.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe guilt. I’ll never truly know.
So I stayed. And the life that might have been was quietly folded up and put away.
The Men Who Did Show Up
Even though I never had a father, I had three uncles—John, Jimmy, and Buddy—who filled the silence in their own ways.
Uncle Buddy
Sweet. Steady. Soft-spoken. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it mattered. He carried peace like a scent—faint, warm, and familiar. With him, I never had to earn love. It was just there.
Uncle Jimmy
He was the spark. The sailor. A Navy man who seemed to always be out to sea, climbing the ranks and chasing the horizon. But even while serving far from home, he made sure his family was cared for.
He bought a beautiful house for my grandmother, where she raised his children while he was deployed. That house became a magical place for me. I loved visiting when my cousins were there—it was pure childhood chaos, the fun kind. They were loud, wild, and hilarious. Nothing made sense and everything felt safe. I adored it all.
Later in life, Uncle Jimmy lost his wife—a quiet grief that lingered behind his smile. But he never let sorrow steal his joy, especially not from me. He was still the uncle who made everyone laugh, who gave without asking anything in return.
But life hit him hard. First, he lost his wife Joan to a rare blood disorder. Then, both of their sons—my cousins—died from the same illness. Most people wouldn’t survive that kind of loss. But Uncle Jimmy did. And he never stopped showing up.
Eventually, he found love again with Marie, a nurse, because apparently the universe knew he needed someone who could heal more than just broken hearts. When he got sick with diabetes later in life, Marie took care of him, standing by him in the same way he had always stood by others.
Uncle John
Uncle John was the one who tried to rescue me. The one who saw a little girl and thought, She could be mine.
If there’s one memory that haunts me—not because it happened, but because it almost did—it’s the moment I wasn’t adopted by Uncle John.
When I was a baby—with a clubfoot and a mother already struggling with a five-year-old son—my Uncle John and his wife Vickie offered to adopt me. They had two sons already but longed for a daughter to complete their family. Aunt Vickie was a nurse, kind and capable. Uncle John worked for Frito-Lay as a delivery driver. They had a loving home, a loyal dog, and more than enough room in their hearts.
They wanted me.
They chose me.
But my mother said no.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe guilt. I’ll never truly know.
So I stayed. And the life that might have been was quietly folded up and put away.
Even after my mother turned down the adoption, he never disappeared. He stayed in my life—steadily, quietly, lovingly.
The Day I Didn’t Go
There was a weekend Uncle Jimmy invited me to visit him in Virginia Beach. My new boyfriend and I. A little escape. A moment to reconnect.
But I didn’t go.
Why?
Because I was freshly dating the man who would become my husband, and my best friend at the time had just gotten into a fight with her boyfriend. She didn’t want me to leave town.
So I stayed.
I chose someone else’s storm over his calm. And I’ve regretted it ever since.
He passed away not long after. I never got to sit beside him, hear his stories, or simply say thank you.
Thank you for wanting me.
Thank you for choosing me.
Thank you for loving me when no one had to.
The Wedding in Aunt Betty’s Backyard
He still came to my mother’s wedding—held in Aunt Betty’s backyard, which felt more sacred than any chapel. I was in the wedding party. I wore a dress and a proud smile.
Uncle Jimmy and Marie sat side by side. I watched them quietly. I remember thinking, This is what grace looks like. Even after everything life had taken from him, he still showed up. Still loved. Still gave.
The Book This Blog Will Become
This story? It’s just one chapter.
There are more.
More about my mother and her tangled truths.
More about the father I never knew and the men who tried to fill that void.
More about my childhood, my choices, and the quiet heroes who saved me without a single headline.
Because even when you’re born into confusion…
Even when the foundation is cracked…
You can still build something beautiful on top of it.
💌 Want to follow the rest of the story?
This blog is part of an upcoming memoir by A.L. Childers. If it moved you, there’s more where this came from.
Join the journey at TheHypothyroidismChick.com to read future chapters, get exclusive stories, and receive a free “Healing Through Story” workbook to explore your own past, purpose, and power.
“Family isn’t always who made you. Sometimes, it’s who stayed.”
💬 Your Turn: Let’s Talk
Did this story resonate with you?
Were you raised by someone who wasn’t your parent but still gave you everything they could?
Do you have a chapter in your life that still tugs at your heart?
I’d love to hear from you.
👉 Drop a comment below and share your thoughts, your story, or even just a hello.
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Your story matters.
And so does your heart.
Thanks for reading,
—A.L. Childers
I am the tallest one in pink! 80’s hair, baby! The gal next to me is my ex-sil ( I am still friends with her to this day) and then my half sister..
Disclaimer
The content of this blog is intended for informational and thought-provoking purposes only. While the discoveries discussed are based on current scientific findings, the interpretations, theories, and speculative discussions presented are the author’s perspectives and should not be taken as definitive scientific conclusions.
This blog explores both mainstream scientific theories and alternative viewpoints that challenge conventional narratives. Readers are encouraged to conduct their own research, engage in critical thinking, and approach all information—whether from established sources or independent researchers—with an open but discerning mind.
Furthermore, any references to historical texts, hidden knowledge, or cosmic mysteries reflect the author’s ongoing research and exploration of unconventional ideas. This blog does not claim to provide absolute truth but rather serves as a platform for curiosity, discussion, and questioning the nature of reality.
For verified scientific studies and further reading, refer to the sources cited.
A.L. Childers
Published Author, Advocate, and Your Partner in Thyroid Health
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