“No. You’re the woman who gave birth to me. There’s a difference.”
“Please. Just give me a chance.”
“Why should I?”
She had no answer.
I walked out.
Back at the hospital, Mom was awake, staring at the wall.
“Mom, I went to see her.”
“So, you found out?”
There was no accusation in her voice. She expected me to leave, to choose biology over everything she had given me.
But she didn’t beg. She didn’t ask me to stay. Her eyes told me everything.
I sat beside her. “It’s been a long day.”
She looked at me, tears in her eyes.
“Let’s go home, Mom.”
“Tom…”
“I’m starving. I could really use your casserole.”
Her face crumpled. “You’re not… leaving?”
“Where would I go? You’re my mother.”
She reached for my hand. “I was so scared you’d choose her.”
“There’s no choice to make. You raised me. You were there. That’s all that matters.”
That night, I went up to the attic again—not for secrets, but for memories.
I found Dad’s journal. Brown leather. Worn edges. Pages filled with his handwriting.
I opened to a random page.
“Tom called me Dad today for the first time. I had to leave the room so he wouldn’t see me cry. I never thought I’d be a father. But now I can’t imagine being anything else.”
I read that line over and over.
Mom found me sitting on the floor, crying. She sat beside me without saying a word.
“He loved me.”
