I hadn’t seen my sister Kayla in months when she showed up on my doorstep, disheveled and tearful, cradling a baby boy. “Just two weeks, Mae,” she pleaded, needing time to sort things out. I agreed, but she never came back. Months passed, and the only trace she left was a birth certificate with no name for the baby’s father — or the baby himself.
I named him Liam, after our grandfather, and raised him as my own. From sleepless nights to scraped knees, I was his everything. I worked two jobs to support him, even pawned my guitar to buy his school laptop. Kayla became a ghost, only texting once in a while.
On Liam’s 16th birthday, Kayla reappeared — wealthy, glamorous, and full of apologies. She showered him with gifts and affection, eventually offering him a new life and a convertible. Just like that, he chose her and left.
He didn’t say goodbye.
Years passed. I grieved the loss of the boy I raised, quietly and alone. Then, five years later, he returned — broke, kicked out, and needing a place to stay. I let him sleep on the couch.
Slowly, we rebuilt our bond. He confessed how things with Kayla had fallen apart — the fake promises, the repossessed car, the endless disappointments. He admitted he should’ve called, and I told him how much it hurt when he left.
Still, I forgave him.
Because that’s what family does.
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