“Yes… thank you,” Michael said softly, reaching for the wallet.
Ethan handed it over—but didn’t move away. His eyes stayed on the photo, then the grave, then the man.
The question escaped him, trembling:
“Why… why do you have a picture of my mom?”
Michael froze.
“What did you say?”
“The woman in the photo,” Ethan swallowed. “She used to visit the orphanage. She said she was going to adopt me. She called me ‘sweetheart.’ She promised me a family… and then she disappeared.”
Michael looked at the grave. Then at the boy.
Like his mind was trying to connect pieces that had never existed together.
“She was going to adopt you?” he whispered.
Ethan nodded hard, biting his lip to keep from crying.
“She said I’d have my own room. A dad. Even a dog. Then one day she just didn’t come back. Nobody told me why. And I… I left.”
Michael dropped to his knees in front of him, expensive suit sinking into the dirt.
“Anna…” he breathed. “Anna died three months ago. A car accident.” His voice broke. “She was my wife.”
The word wife hit Ethan like a stone.
Tears spilled without permission.
Michael cried too.