When I first met Adam, he was a small, quiet five-year-old boy sitting alone on the steps of a foster home. His mother had left him to start a new life with a man who didn’t want children. I remember the way Adam clutched a toy car, staring at the ground, too scared to speak.
My heart broke. I promised I’d give him a home—and love he’d never lose again. When he asked about his mother, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth.
I told him she had passed away when he was two. It felt kinder than saying she chose to leave him. I thought I was protecting him from a pain too cruel for a child to carry.
Years went by, and he grew into a bright, kind young man. He’s now in his final year of college. Last week, he came home for a visit—but instead of the warm smile I expected, he barely spoke to me.
His eyes were cold, and he avoided my gaze. Then, three days later, he disappeared. My calls went unanswered.
I barely slept, fearing the worst. When he finally came back, he stood in the doorway, trembling, his eyes red from crying. He handed me a folded newspaper—his mother’s obituary.
