“I just wanted to be a mom.”
Not the picture-perfect kind—just someone who could change a child’s life.
That child was Joey.
From the moment he grabbed my hand and said, “Okay. But I don’t eat green beans,” I became his mom.
A week later, I threw him a birthday party. Pancakes, presents, and a toy T-rex. But something felt off.
“My birthday was yesterday,” he said quietly. “I used to share it with my brother. Grandma Vivi told us we had two birthdays.”
It was the first time he spoke of his past.
Later, he showed me a drawing of a lighthouse. “Grandma used to take us here.”
I searched everywhere until I found it—a small coastal town, a yellow house on a cliff.
When we knocked, Grandma Vivi answered. Cold. Distant.
“You should leave,” she said.
Joey gently placed his drawing on the doorstep.
We turned to go—until a voice cried, “Joey!”
His brother, Tommy, ran toward us. They collided, arms wrapped tight.
Behind them, Vivi watched with tears in her eyes and finally nodded.
Over tea, she admitted her choice: she kept one boy and let the other go. A decision born from grief and fear.
Joey reached for her hand. “It’s okay. I found Mom.”
Now, both boys live with me. And every weekend, we return to the lighthouse—where Grandma Vivi waits.
Because family is about finding your way back to each other.
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