Minor detail.

I was ruminating about this divorce and my kids the other day. Fine, every day. When I realized something. I am a child of divorce two times over. My mother and my biological father divorced when I was very young. I have two hazy memories of him and had no contact with him growing up. I have my theories about that. When I decided to look for him and reach out, I discovered he had died six months earlier. Maybe it was for the best.

As I was sitting on my couch researching my biological father, the man who raised me, my dad, was sitting next to me. Filling in details that he knew. As earnest in my search as I was. Without ego or anger or fear. There was no need. He is my dad. Scraped knees and tears. Driving lessons and college drop-offs. Walking down the aisle and now holding my hand as I walk alone-ish.

I don't have two dads. I have one. But the man who raised me doesn't share my DNA. It's why my definition of family is a little fluid. Why I collect people who matter to me. Why I find it difficult to let family go. Because while I was raised by a man who made me whole, there is still 50% of me that, really, is entirely unknown. That's ok. My dad more than made up for it.

But, still, I am a child of divorce twice over. It never occurred to me until now.