I was folding laundry when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it to find Olivia—smiling, acting like nothing had happened. She said she’d heard about our father’s passing and wanted her “share” of the inheritance. No apology. No questions about Jake. Just a casual demand for money.
I reminded her what she’d walked away from—the sleepless nights, the scraped knees, the first words and birthdays she missed. She shrugged and said, “It worked out. He has you.”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t argue. I simply handed her an envelope filled with years’ worth of receipts—proof of everything I’d invested in the child she left behind. She stormed off in anger, and I made sure that door stayed closed. I filed for legal adoption, and Jake officially became my son.
When he turned fourteen, I told him the truth—about Olivia, the note, and everything in between. He didn’t cry. But he looked at me with wide, searching eyes and asked, “Did she ever ask about me?”
I told him the truth: “No. But I did. I asked about you every day. And I chose you. I still do.”
That night, as I held him close, I realized something powerful. We may not share DNA, but we share something deeper: a bond built on love, sacrifice, and choice. Olivia may have left, but Jake and I? We stayed. We became a family not by chance, but by choice—and that kind of love doesn’t fade.