A few years ago I decided to revisit the topic of my roots and childhood in this Washington Post essay. One thing led to another and soon I had a memoir on my hands…one that took surprising twists and turns that even I never would have expected. I was raised by my African American mother and grandmother in Los Angeles. Santa Monica and Hollywood, to be precise. During most of my life I had no contact with my father, or anyone on the white side of my family. But then, in the summer of 2017, when I was well on my way to middle age and a new Mom to boot, everything changed. My father reentered our lives and, this time, he finally became my Dad.

Ours is a family story about relentless optimism and faith. It’s also about forgiveness. And redemption and second (and third and fourth and fifth) chances. It’s a love story that took us all by surprise.

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