She Said Two Weeks. I Raised Him for Fifteen Years. Then She Came Back.
When my sister Kayla showed up on my doorstep with a baby in her arms, I never imagined how much that moment would change my life. She told me she just needed two weeks to “sort things out.” I didn’t believe her, but I said yes. That yes turned into fifteen years.
She looked tired that night — mascara smudged, voice strained, perfume replaced by the scent of desperation. She barely met my eyes as she placed the baby in my arms. “Please, Mae. Just for a little while.”
That little while turned into silence. A few vague texts followed, always promising she was working on things. Then, an envelope arrived: her son’s birth certificate. No father listed. Just her name. No note. No explanation.
I named him Liam, after our grandfather. From then on, I was his mother in every way that mattered. I was there for his first steps, scraped knees, science fairs, and sleepless nights. I worked extra shifts when he needed braces. I sold my old guitar to buy him a laptop. I gave him everything I had — and everything I didn’t.
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