It was a folded stack of old papers, yellowed at the edges and tied with a faded ribbon. “They were hidden in his backpack,” Amelia said, her voice tight. Letters. Documents. The first page wasn’t a letter at all—it was Leo’s birth certificate. Under Father was a name I didn’t recognize, listed as alive. Beneath it were court records and a newspaper clipping about a man once wanted for armed robbery, presumed dead. Leo’s biological father. Amelia whispered, “What if it’s genetic?”
I stopped her gently. “That’s not fear for our family,” I said. “That’s fear of my son.” The words hung between us, heavy and final.
The next morning, I sat Leo down and told him everything. He didn’t cry. He just looked tired. “I found those papers when I was eight,” he admitted. “I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d see me like him.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like something bad waiting to happen.”
I took his hand. “I chose you,” I said. “Nothing in those papers changes that.” His shoulders eased, just a little. Later that day, Amelia packed a bag. “I can’t live always wondering,” she said.
“I won’t ask you to,” I replied. “But I won’t abandon my son to make fear easier.” She left.
Years have passed. Leo is grown now—kind, steady, thoughtful. Watching the man he became taught me something simple and true. Blood may explain where someone comes from, but love decides who they become. I was once an orphan myself. I refused to make my son one too.
