I never thought this day would come. I told myself, over and over, that I’d probably never see him again. That was the whole point, right? Giving him a life I couldn’t provide.
And yet, there he was.
Standing on my doorstep, hands shoved in his pockets, looking so much like me it nearly knocked the air from my lungs.
“Are you… Maia?” he asked, voice uncertain.
I gripped the doorframe to steady myself. “Yeah,” I whispered.
He hesitated. “I think you’re my—” He stopped, like he wasn’t sure if he could say the word.
I swallowed hard. “I know who you are.”
He let out a breath, like he’d been holding it. “Okay. Good.”
A thousand thoughts raced through my head. Did his parents know he was here? Was he angry? Curious? Did he just want to see my face once and walk away?
I had so many things I wanted to say, but I couldn’t even figure out where to start.
So I just stepped back and said the only thing I could:
“Do you want to come in?”
He nodded.
Then, just as he stepped forward, a car pulled up behind him. The door flew open—
And a woman got out, her face pale, her eyes locked on me.
His adoptive mother.
I hadn’t seen her since the day I signed the papers. And now, all these years later, she was standing in my driveway, her arms crossed over her chest like she was bracing for a fight.
“Ethan,” she said, her voice tight. “You didn’t tell me we were coming here.”
Ethan. I’d never said it out loud before. I’d whispered it to myself in the quiet moments, wondering what he looked like, what kind of boy he was becoming. And now he was here, standing between us, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“Mom,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I just… I just wanted to meet her.”
Her expression softened, just for a second, before she turned back to me. “I don’t know what he was hoping to find, but I need to know one thing: What do you want from this?”
The way she said it—like she was preparing for me to say something selfish, something that would break him—made my heart ache. I had no right to ask for anything. I knew that.
“I don’t want anything,” I said quickly. “I just… I didn’t expect him to be here. But I’m not going to turn him away.”
Ethan glanced between us, his shoulders tense. “I don’t need permission,” he muttered. “I just want to talk.”
His mother exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Fifteen minutes,” she finally said. “I’ll wait in the car.”
Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving Ethan standing there, looking at me.
I stepped aside. “Come on in.”
The house was small, nothing fancy. I never had much, but I kept it cozy. He looked around like he was taking it all in, like he was trying to find pieces of himself here.
I gestured to the couch, but he hesitated. “I don’t really know how to do this,” he admitted.
“Me neither.” I sat down, and after a moment, he did too. “But you’re here, so… let’s start with that. What do you want to know?”
He stared at his hands. “Why did you do it?”
I expected the question, but it still hit me like a punch to the gut.
“I was young,” I said carefully. “Too young. I didn’t have money, I didn’t have a stable home. I wanted you to have more than I could give you.”
He was quiet for a long time. “Did you ever regret it?”
My throat tightened. “Every day.”
His gaze snapped to mine. “But you still did it.”
“Because it wasn’t about me,” I said softly. “It was about you.”
Something in his face shifted, like he wasn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved. “I had a good life,” he admitted. “They took care of me. They love me.”
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Another silence stretched between us before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I wrote this when I was thirteen,” he said, smoothing it out. “It was an assignment—write a letter to someone you’ve never met but always wanted to.” He looked at me. “I wrote to you.”
I blinked, my eyes burning. “Can I read it?”
He hesitated, then handed it over.
My hands trembled as I unfolded it. The handwriting was messy, still childish, but the words hit me straight in the heart.
Dear Maia,
I don’t know you, but sometimes I wonder if you think about me. I wonder if I have your smile or your laugh. Sometimes I feel guilty for being happy, because I know you gave me up. But if you did it because you loved me, I want you to know I love you too. And I hope, someday, I get to tell you that.
Tears blurred my vision. I pressed the letter to my chest, unable to speak.
He cleared his throat. “I guess I just wanted to know if you ever thought about me. If I was more than just… a mistake.”
I reached across the table and took his hand. “Never a mistake. You were the best thing I ever did. I just wasn’t the best thing for you.”
He squeezed my hand before pulling away. “I should go,” he said, standing up.
I nodded, even though I wanted to beg him to stay. “I’m glad you came.”
He gave me a small, sad smile. “Me too.”
As he walked to the door, he hesitated. Then, just before stepping out, he turned back.
“Maybe we could get coffee sometime?” he asked, hopeful.
I smiled through my tears. “I’d love that.”
And just like that, the door that I thought was closed forever—opened just a little.
Life has a way of bringing people back together when the time is right. If this story touched you, share it with someone who might need to hear it. And remember, love doesn’t always mean holding on—sometimes, it means letting go.
