“I lived in train stations for almost two years,” Liam said quietly. “Then an art teacher let me work in her studio after hours. She was the first person who ever called me son.”
His words felt like knives.
“Why did you invite me here?” I finally asked.
He opened a folder and removed a sealed envelope.
“My mother gave this to me before she died,” he said. “I never opened it until recently.”
Inside was an old medical report.
A paternity test.
My name.
His name.
Result: 99.8% match.
The room spun around me.
“No…” I whispered.
Liam looked at me calmly.
“You didn’t just raise me,” he said. “You were my father all along.”
My chest tightened with unbearable regret.
Every cold word.
Every moment of rejection.
And the night I threw my own son out of my home.
I collapsed into a chair, shaking.
“What have I done…”
Liam stood quietly for a moment before speaking again.
“Many parents make mistakes,” he said gently. “They forget that children don’t need perfection… they just need love.”
I wiped tears from my face.
“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he replied.
He looked at me carefully.
“But there is something I want.”
“Anything.”
He took a deep breath.