He had no idea.
Two slices of cake—his favorites—sat in front of him: rich chocolate and rainbow with those sprinkles he once called “happy freckles.” He didn’t ask why we got both this time. He just smiled and dug in.
We were in our usual booth, the one that always felt like home. I wanted it to feel safe, familiar. Because what he didn’t know was that this was goodbye.
The night before, I’d signed the adoption papers. A new family waited. I’d packed his little fox plush and favorite hoodie into a duffel bag with shaking hands.
I wasn’t letting him go because I didn’t love him—but because I did. I couldn’t give him the future he deserved. Someone else could.
He was eight. Still full of joy and trust. “Can I have more cake?” he asked, eyes wide. I nodded, forcing a smile. “As much as you want today, buddy.”
We went to the park, played on the swings, laughed like we always did. I memorized everything—his laugh, his tiny hand in mine, the weight of him leaning into me.
That night, he asked to sleep in my bed. I held him close, soaking in the moment. When he fell asleep, I let myself cry. Quietly.
The next morning, I walked him to the door of his new life. He clutched my hand. The couple greeted us with warmth. I gave him one last hug and stepped back, heart breaking.
Years later, a letter arrived. He was twelve. He thanked me. He said he always knew I loved him—and that he understood.
And in that moment, I realized: what felt like the greatest loss… was actually the greatest gift.
Letting go hurt—but it gave him the life he deserved. And love? Real love sometimes means saying goodbye.
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