June 4th is the date on which my father died, many years ago. My birth-father, that is. He was on his way home from work and his car was involved in a crash. I was less than three months old, his first child.
Two years later, my mother remarried the man whom I knew and think of as my father, the man who raised me and whose name I carry. And they had another six children together.
Had my birth-father's car been just a few seconds either side of the crash moment, he would not have died. I would have had not only a different name, but a different life, a different family. I would have been someone else. And the family that I know, my brothers and sisters, and now their families, would never have existed.
All because of a few seconds.
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