I saw a little boy wandering alone in the airport, clutching his backpack, scared and lost. I approached him gently.
“Tommy,” he whispered his name, and when I opened his bag, I froze. The ticket bore my last name—Harrison. My heart sank.
He was my nephew. My brother Ryan, who disappeared years ago, had a six-year-old son I never knew existed.
As we guided Tommy toward security, Ryan came rushing through the crowd. The reunion was awkward, tense, and heavy with years of resentment—but relief softened him.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Ryan admitted, staring at his son.
I swallowed my anger. “You vanished… and now there’s a whole life I didn’t know about.”
Ryan nodded. “I know. I screwed up.”
Tommy asked innocently if he’d see his “Uncle Ethan” again.
Ryan and I exchanged a glance, a tiny, hesitant smile forming.
“Maybe,” Ryan said.
“Maybe we can,” I agreed, hope stirring in my chest.
