When I was born my dad was on drugs. My mom left. We went with her, my two-year-old sister and I, and never saw him again. He tried, but my mom said he molested my sister. She remarried. Then, years later, my sister married. She invited our dad. I stood, arms folded, and he smiled while we talked. I left for a mission. He wrote me a letter. I wrote back and told him he wasn't my dad. I didn't hear back. Two years later I married. I didn't invite our dad. Depression had haunted me for years. My father was a drug-addicted molester. What did that make me? I broke. I called him. We cried. I visited Papa first, his dad. He and Nana had pictures of me. I never knew they still prayed for me. My mother lied. They're good people. I was from good people. I went to his house next. My mother lied. The psychologist signed it; he hadn't molested my sister. The drugs, those were real. He made a mistake. My mom made a mistake. I made a mistake. I call him dad now. We all make mistakes.