When I first met Adam, he was a silent five-year-old in foster care, abandoned by a mother who chose a new life without him. Clutching a toy car, he wouldn’t speak. I promised him love, stability, and a family.
When he asked about his mother, I lied. I told him she had died when he was two, believing it was kinder than telling him she had left by choice. I thought I was protecting his fragile heart.
Years passed, and Adam grew into a thoughtful, intelligent young man. But in his final year of college, he came home distant… then disappeared without a word.
When he returned, his eyes swollen from crying, he handed me a newspaper—his mother’s obituary. She had died five years ago, not when he was two.
“You lied to me,” he whispered. “You took away my chance to know her.”
I had tried to protect him from pain—but instead, I stole years he could have had. Now all I can do is admit my mistake and hope that love, even flawed love, might one day earn his forgiveness.
