On my very first flight as a captain, a passenger started choking in first class. When I ran out to save him, I saw the same birthmark that had haunted my entire childhood. The man I’d spent 20 years searching for was suddenly lying at my feet — and he wasn’t who I thought he was.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with the sky.

It all started with an old, crinkled photograph they showed me at the orphanage where I grew up.

I was about five years old in that picture. I was sitting in the cockpit of a small airplane, grinning like I owned the entire horizon.

Behind me stood a man wearing a pilot’s cap, and I spent 20 years believing that man was my father.

It all started with an old, crinkled photograph.

He had his hand on my shoulder, and a massive, dark birthmark stretched across one side of his face.

That photograph was the single most important thing in my life. It was a connection to my past and a path for my future.

Every time life tried to knock me off course, I went back to it.

When I failed my first written exam, when my savings ran out halfway through flight school, when I worked double shifts just to afford simulator hours, I kept that photo folded in my wallet.