When my sister Kayla showed up unannounced with a baby on her hip and desperation in her eyes, asking me to watch him “just for a couple weeks,” I didn’t hesitate. I figured she needed a break — she always did — and I thought I was just helping out. But after she drove off, she never came back. Just a few vague texts now and then, scattered like breadcrumbs leading nowhere. Then, eventually, an envelope arrived: a birth certificate with no father listed, no name for the child — only Kayla’s as the mother. I named him Liam, after our grandfather,
and I raised him as my own. What started as temporary turned into late-night feedings, doctor visits, scraped knees, and school plays. I gave up things — jobs, relationships, sleep — all for him. I learned how to be a mother one small, difficult day at a time. Fifteen years passed. Liam grew into a kind, curious teenager with his own opinions and dreams. We were a team, even when life was hard. Then, on his sixteenth birthday, Kayla returned like a storm in a luxury SUV — polished, wealthy-looking, and full of charm. She brought designer bags full of gifts, a brand-new car, and glossy promises of a better life. He left with her that night. No goodbye. Just a text: