The Past
Growing up, I knew something was different. Rovan and I weren't just cousins – we were brothers in every way that mattered. My grandparents had raised me with a love so complete that the word 'biological' felt meaningless.
My birth parents were teenagers when I was born, unprepared and unwilling. They handed me to my maternal grandparents, vanishing like morning mist. Rovan's mother had died when he was two, and he became my true brother – seven months older, perpetually teasing me, fiercely protective.
The Turning Point
When my birth parents returned years later, they brought chaos. They claimed they wanted a relationship, but their motives were transparent. They'd fabricated stories to their other children about our supposed close bond, expecting me to play along.
But I knew my family. Rovan was my brother. My parents – the ones who raised me, loved me, sacrificed everything – they were my true north. These strangers who shared genetic material meant nothing to me.
Looking Back Now
Some relatives suggested I was being harsh, that the other children weren't responsible for their parents' choices. But I understood something profound: connection isn't automatic. Love is chosen, not inherited.
My decision wasn't about punishment. It was about protecting myself and honoring the family that truly raised me. Rovan understood. My parents supported me completely.
The Lesson
Family is a choice, not a biological accident. Those who show up, who love unconditionally, who stand beside you through storms – they are your real family. Genetics are just chemistry. Love is a commitment.
I don't carry guilt. I carry gratitude for the family who chose me, who made me who I am.