“Name’s Evan,” he reported. “No last name. No records. Sleeps near East 10th Street. An elderly homeless man named Gus Whitaker looks after him.”
Vivienne went there herself.
Gone were the marble floors and city-view penthouses. Here, everything was broken—shattered brick, wet cardboard, the smell of cold trash and forgotten people.
Then she saw him.
The boy—Evan—curled inside a cardboard box beside Gus. His small chest rose and fell softly.
Around his neck was a tarnished silver pendant.
Engraved with one word:
“Aiden.”
Vivienne’s heart collapsed.
Gus noticed her. “You looking for the kid?”
She nodded.
“Sweet boy,” Gus murmured. “Don’t remember much. Always says his mama’s coming back. Holds that necklace like it’s the last piece of her.”
Vivienne could hardly stand. Tears blurred her sight.
She collected a few strands of Evan’s hair while he slept and secretly ordered a DNA test.
For the next three days, she sent food, medicine, warm coats—never revealing herself. She watched from a distance as Evan laughed for the first time in what looked like years.
Then the results arrived.
99.9% match.
Evan was Aiden.
Vivienne sank to her knees. She had screamed at her own child. Humiliated him. Pushed him.