…“Your son is looking for you.”
I had to read the letter three times before the words made sense.
My hands were shaking when I called my dad. My mom got on the line instead, crying before I could say a word. She admitted everything.
They hadn’t changed their hearts. They’d changed their plan.
Those “hospital forms” were adoption papers. They’d arranged it while I was in labor — told the staff I was unstable, unfit, confused. They said it was “for my own good.” That I was too young. That I’d thank them one day.
I never did.
My son had been raised by another family. A good one, they said. He had a life. A name. A childhood I never got to see. But when he turned 24, he requested access to his original records.
And he chose to find me.
We met in a quiet café. I recognized him instantly — my dad’s eyes, my smile. He looked just as terrified as I felt.
“I don’t want to replace anyone,” he said quickly. “I just wanted to know where I came from.”
I reached across the table and took his hand. “I never stopped loving you,” I said. “Not for a single day.”
We talked for hours. About who he was. About who I’d been. About the life that had been stolen from both of us.
I don’t have a relationship with my parents anymore.
But I have my son.
Slowly. Carefully. On our own terms.
And that’s something no one can ever take from me again.
