At seventeen, I thought I knew love. When I got pregnant, he promised, “I’ll be there.” Weeks after my son was born, he vanished. No goodbye. No explanation. Just silence.
Exhausted and terrified, I almost gave him up—but my parents stepped in. They legally adopted him, named him J, and to the world, he became my little brother. I moved on, built my life, and accepted the role I was given.
Years later, my parents asked me to take him in. I said no. They expected me to step back into a role I had already signed away, calling me selfish when I refused. Then I found a folder labeled “If B. refuses”—emails from families willing to adopt him.
I’m torn. He’s not my son legally, but everyone insists he’s my responsibility. I protected him once—didn’t I do enough?
