I was seven when a Gameboy appeared at our doorstep on Christmas morning.
No one knew where it came from. My mom cried when she saw it. Dad always guessed a kind family friend left it. Last year, after Dad passed away, Mom told me the truth.
“It wasn’t a friend,” she said, hands trembling around her tea. “It was from your brother’s real father.”
I stared at her. “My what?”
Before marrying my dad, she’d been with someone else—a man she loved but things didn’t last. From that relationship, she had a son—my half-brother, Jonah.
“He was only a few years older than you,” Mom said. “His father, Gavin, left when Jonah was still a baby. I never thought we’d hear from him again—until that Christmas.”
The Gameboy had been Gavin’s way of reaching out.
Mom never told Dad, fearing it would stir up pain. But when he eventually found out, his response was simple: “It doesn’t matter. I love both boys.”
I had lived nearly 30 years believing I was an only child. Suddenly, I wasn’t.
Mom handed me an old photo—faded and creased. Two boys sat on a bench: one clearly me, the other slightly older, with my same eyes and nose. “Gavin sent that,” she said. “No return address. I think he tried to stay connected, somehow.”
Questions flooded my mind.
Where was Jonah now? Did he even know I existed? Why hadn’t he ever reached out?
I started digging—going through old letters, asking Mom for details, searching for clues.
Eventually, I found one: a torn envelope with the name Lansky scribbled on the back.
That was all I needed.
I scoured forums, posted on social media, searched every “Jonah Lansky” I could find.
Weeks passed.
Then came a message: “I think we’re related.”
It was from Jonah. He’d been adopted at ten. He’d tried to learn more about his past but hadn’t gotten far—until he stumbled across my post.
We exchanged numbers, then phone calls. Hearing his voice for the first time, we were both hesitant, unsure—but there was a spark of something familiar.