The adoption process was long and arduous. After navigating the maze of paperwork and home visits, I finally brought my son home. He was a sweet little boy, but the trauma of being abandoned lingered in his eyes. I poured all my love and energy into making him feel safe and secure, trying to fill the void his birth mother had left. Birthdays, school plays, soccer games – I was there for everything, cheering him on, always present. I thought, maybe naively, that time had healed those wounds. We built a life together, a family, a bond that I believed was stronger than blood. He was my son, and I was his mother, plain and simple, even if he never quite called me ‘mom’. He was always polite and respectful, calling me by my first name, a constant reminder of the distance that existed between us. I tried not to let it bother me. I reasoned that he needed time, that someday he would truly see me as his mother. He excelled in school, made friends easily, and had a passion for soccer. I felt so proud of him. I did everything I could to make sure he had a happy and fulfilling childhood. Despite the underlying ache in my heart, I was content. We were a family, even if it wasn’t a conventional one.
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His eleventh birthday arrived, a day filled with laughter and presents. We had a small party with his friends, and later, a quiet dinner at home. He seemed genuinely happy, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe that everything was perfect, that our bond was finally solidifying. That’s when the doorbell rang.
Standing on the porch was a woman I vaguely recognized from the adoption agency. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked incredibly nervous. Before I could say anything, she blurted out, “I’m his mother. I want him back.” My blood ran cold. Eight years. Eight years she had been absent, and now, suddenly, she wanted to waltz back into his life and reclaim him? I was livid.
Without a word, I slammed the door in her face. I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to her excuses. I ran to my son, hugged him tightly, and told him everything was going to be okay. He looked confused and scared, but I reassured him that I would never let anything happen to him. That night, I had trouble sleeping. I kept replaying the scene in my head, wondering what could possibly possess a person to abandon their child and then reappear years later with such audacity. I stayed up until sunrise.
Finally, exhausted but determined, I decided to check on my son. I walked down the hallway to his room and gently pushed the door open. The room was empty. His bed was neatly made, but he was nowhere to be seen. A wave of panic washed over me. I searched the house, calling his name, but there was no answer.
Then I saw it. A note on his pillow. Written in shaky handwriting, it read: “I went with her. I need to know. I’ll be back.” [ “GONE!” ] My world crumbled.
