Ryan had spent months in neonatal care before coming home with them. The hospital told them his biological parents believed he wouldn’t survive.
Ryan listened quietly.
Then he turned to me.
“So… I had a brother?”
“Yes,” I said softly.
“What happened to him?”
“He died when he was nine.”
Ryan lowered his head.
“That’s… strange,” he said after a moment. “He was born healthy, and I wasn’t. But I’m the one who lived.”
His adoptive mother placed a hand on his shoulder.
I watched him lean into her.
And my heart cracked a little.
He was my son.
But he wasn’t mine anymore.
Later that evening, Mark tried to speak to me again.
“I thought I was protecting you,” he said.
“You were protecting yourself,” I replied quietly. “I understand you were afraid. But you kept this from me for nineteen years.”
“Can you forgive me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That night, there was another knock on the door.
When I opened it, Ryan stood there, nervously tugging at his jacket sleeve.
“I don’t know what to call you,” he said.
I wiped my eyes.
“You can call me Anna,” I said softly. “That’s enough for now.”
He nodded.
“This is complicated, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But maybe it will get easier.”
He took a deep breath.