I froze. That photo — it was unmistakably my son, Michael. The same son who hadn’t spoken to me in over ten years.
When Ryan came home, I confronted him. He didn’t deny it.
“Michael is my dad,” he said. “I wanted to meet you without all the baggage. He told me his version of the story. I needed to find out the truth for myself.”
I stared at him, speechless. The resemblance was clearer now — not just in his face, but in the way he watched me, waiting, hoping.
“You could’ve told me,” I said.
“I was scared you’d hate me,” he admitted.
I shook my head, tears in my eyes. “You’re my grandson. And you brought life back into this house.”
He smiled, just a little. “So… can I stay?”
I reached for his hand.
“Let’s have dinner. And talk — really talk.”
And for the first time in years, the silence in the house felt full. Not empty.
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