My father, Paul Spizuco, died when I was 18 months old. For a long time my youthful mind assumed Paul must have been a bad guy because no one ever talked about him. In my late twenties my grandmother told me Paul was actually fun and generous and I was a lot like him. About ten years ago, I learned that my mother had been the one that purposely cut me off from my paternal family. As my eyes welled when William died, I had an overwhelming urge to share my story publicly for the first time.

Source: Huffington Post March 12, 2017 20:37 UTC