The baby smelled like sour milk and desperation when Kayla thrust him into my arms. My flighty younger sister swore she just needed “two weeks to get settled.” Those became the most expensive fourteen days of my life.
I named him Liam and learned to be a mother – warming bottles with sleep-deprived hands, crying over first steps, working myself raw to give him stability. Kayla’s occasional texts (“Tell him Mom says happy birthday!”) were like papercuts – small but cumulative.
Then on Liam’s sixteenth birthday, Kayla arrived in our struggling neighborhood like a movie star – designer handbag, perfect highlights, and a luxury SUV. I watched helplessly as she rewrote history between shopping sprees, convincing my boy she’d always loved him. The final act? A convertible with a bow so big it looked ridiculous against our cracked driveway.
When Liam chose her that day, the pain was physical. I packed up fifteen years of crayon drawings and school photos alone, telling myself he’d see through her eventually.
It took five years. The knock came at midnight – Liam standing there with haunted eyes and a duffel bag. Kayla’s latest boyfriend didn’t want him around, the fancy car had been a lease, and suddenly the son she’d stolen wasn’t so appealing anymore.
I made him earn his place back – chores, rent money from his mechanic job, real conversations about his choices. Slowly, the boy I raised emerged from Kayla’s shadow. Now when he calls me “Mom,” it’s not out of obligation, but because after everything – I’m the one who stayed.
