Five years ago, I got the call that changed my life.
A baby had been left at the local fire station — wrapped in a blanket, crying softly, and completely alone. He was only days old when they brought him to me as a foster parent, asking if I could give him temporary care.
I said yes.
But deep down, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere else.
When no family came forward, I officially adopted him — naming him Ethan , giving him my last name, and promising to raise him like he was mine from the start.
We built a life together. School events. Bedtime stories. First steps. All of it.
Until one evening, there was a knock on the door.
Standing there was a woman in her late 20s, eyes red, voice trembling.
“You have to give him back.”
That’s all she said before breaking into tears.
She claimed she was Ethan’s biological mother — that she left him out of desperation, not rejection. That she had struggled with addiction, homelessness, and mental health issues for years after that night.
And now? She wanted him back.
I didn’t slam the door.
Didn’t yell.
Just stood there, stunned — heart pounding, mind racing.
Eventually, I told her, “He doesn’t know who you are.”
“That little boy calls me ‘Mom’ because I’ve always been his mom.”
She whispered, “I know. But I’m clean now. I want to be part of his life.”
I let her talk. Let her cry. Even offered her tea.
But later that week, I sat down with my lawyer.
Because this wasn’t just about emotion or biology.
It was about who raised him .
Who held him through nightmares.
Who wiped his fevered forehead during sickness.
Who promised to love him forever.
And that was me.
The court agreed.
She tried to fight it — but she had signed away her rights long ago.
Now, she watches from afar.
Sometimes sends letters.
Sometimes stands outside his school, trying to see him without being seen.
And every time I see her… I feel something break inside me.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Just sadness.
Because sometimes, people do come back.
But not every return deserves a reunion.