It didn't matter what years they spent raising him, the sleepless nights, the birthdays organized, the homework, the fears calmed and the stories told before sleeping. What mattered were the law, the papers, the biology.
The most difficult moment was the departure. The little boy was crying, not understanding what was happening, looking at me as if I was going to stop everything. But sometimes, even with all the love in the world, you can't change certain decisions.
After he left, the house became silent, too quiet. Her room remained intact, as if waiting for his return. Every birthday, I would bake a cupcake and light a candle, even though he wasn't there.
It was my way of not forgetting, of continuing to love her despite her absence.
The years go by, but some links remain
Time has passed. I learned to live with silence, but never with absence. I had convinced myself that I would probably not see him again, to protect myself and avoid hope.
Then one day, there was a knock on the door.
When I opened, he was there. Older, more adult, but with the same look. In a second, all the years of separation disappeared. He hugged me and started crying, as if he was releasing all the emotions he had kept for years.
He then told me something I'll never forget:
