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“When you said you only pretended for him… was that true?”
His answer came immediately.
“No.”
He stepped closer. “No. It was a lie. I loved you. I loved you my whole life. I said the cruelest thing I could think of because I wanted to make leaving easier. I wanted you angry enough not to stop me.”
I closed my eyes.
He whispered, “I called another woman Mom because she gave birth to me. But when my daughter was born… the only mother I wanted was you.”
That broke me.
I sat down heavily on the porch step and cried in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to in years.
He crouched nearby but didn’t touch me.
After a while, he asked quietly, “Do I still get to call you Mom?”
I looked at him—at the man he had become, at the boy still hidden in his face, at the damage between us.
“Not for free,” I said.
He blinked.
I stood up, took the key from my pocket, and unlocked the door.
Inside, the cottage was filled with things from old conversations—a blue kettle, a yellow blanket, a reading chair by the window.
On the mantel was a framed photo of a newborn baby.
On the back, in shaky handwriting:
“She deserves to know her grandmother.”
I pressed the frame to my chest.
Then I turned to him and said, “You can call me Mom when you earn being my son again.”
He nodded.
Three days later, he brought the baby to my house.
At the door, he said, “We can leave if this is too much.”
I looked at the tiny bundle in his arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come inside.”
He placed her in my arms.
She opened her eyes, yawned, and wrapped her tiny hand around my finger.
Stephen laughed through tears.
On my next birthday, the doorbell rang again.
When I opened the door, Stephen stood there holding his daughter.
In his free hand was a fresh yellow rose.
He smiled and said, “Happy birthday, Mom.”
This time… he stayed.