The man who messages me every year
At fourteen, I got a Facebook message from a man named Dave.
His profile picture showed a middle-aged guy in a work shirt, standing in front of what looked like a garage. The message was short and polite.
Hi. I’m your uncle. I know this is strange. I just wanted to say happy birthday.
I stared at the screen for a long time. I had uncles, but I knew all of them. None of them were named Dave.
When I asked my parents about him, the room went quiet in a way that made my stomach tighten. My mom’s face drained of color. My dad didn’t look at me at all.
“Block him,” my dad said quickly. “He shouldn’t be contacting you.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
But every year after that, on my birthday, Dave sent the same message. Never more. Never less.
Happy birthday. I hope you’re doing well.
No explanations. No pressure.
When I turned eighteen, he sent something different.
You’re an adult now. If you ever want to meet, I’d like that. No secrets. No expectations.
Against my better judgment, I agreed.
He lived two towns over and suggested a small diner just off the highway. When I walked in, I knew immediately who he was. He looked… familiar. Same eyes as my dad. Same crooked smile, like it never quite decided where to settle.
He stood when he saw me.
“You look just like your mom did at your age,” he said softly.
That alone felt like crossing a line no one had ever crossed before.
We talked for an hour. About school. About music. About nothing important. He didn’t pry, didn’t push, didn’t explain himself. It felt like he was afraid one wrong word would send me running.
Finally, I asked the question that had been sitting between us the whole time.
“Why did my parents look scared when I said your name?”
He didn’t answer right away. He stirred his coffee, even though it was cold.
“Because they’re afraid you’ll learn the truth,” he said.
I waited for more, but he didn’t continue. Instead, he reached into his jacket and handed me a folded envelope.
“If you ever want to know everything,” he said gently, “read this when you’re ready. Not angry. Read it when your heart is quiet.”
I didn’t open it that night.
I didn’t open it for weeks.
When I finally did, I was alone in my room, the house quiet.
The letter was written carefully, like every sentence had been rewritten a dozen times.
Dave wasn’t my uncle.
He was my biological father.
He explained that he and my mom had been young, scared, and broke. That my dad — the man who raised me — was his brother. That they’d made a decision they believed would protect everyone, especially me. Dave walked away completely, not because he didn’t care, but because that was the condition.
I never stopped thinking about you, the letter said.
I just loved you quietly.
At the bottom was one final line:
You don’t owe me anything. Not forgiveness. Not a relationship. I just didn’t want to disappear without you knowing who I was.
I cried longer than I expected.
When I finally confronted my parents, there were tears, apologies, and a lot of silence. They told me they’d meant to tell me someday. Someday just kept getting pushed further away.
I still see Dave sometimes.
We’re not close, not distant either. Just honest.
And somehow, that’s enough.
