A home.
Stability.
A love that wouldn’t pack its bags.
When he asked about his mother during those early months, the question always came quietly, usually at bedtime.
“Is she coming back?”
The truth sat heavy in my throat.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell a five-year-old that he had been left behind. That someone had chosen a different life over him.
So I told him she had died when he was two.
I said it gently. Carefully. As if wrapping the words in cotton would soften their edges.
It felt merciful at the time. Kinder than the truth. I convinced myself I was shielding him from a rejection too sharp for a child to carry.
Years passed.
Adam grew into a thoughtful, compassionate young man. He worked hard in school, rarely caused trouble, and still kept that same quiet sensitivity I’d first seen on the foster home steps.
He’s in his final year of college now.
Last week, he came home for a visit.
I expected the usual hug at the door, the familiar warmth in his smile. Instead, he was distant. Polite, but cold. His answers were short. His eyes avoided mine.
I asked if something was wrong.
