My adopted son, Joey, stared at his birthday cake, tears rolling down his face. “My birthday was yesterday,” he whispered. The documents said today—what else had been hidden from me?
Joey had been waiting for a mother, and I became that mother when I promised him, “We’re never coming back here.” He took my hand, saying, “I don’t eat green beans.”
A week later, I celebrated his first real birthday. Despite the presents and cake, Joey’s excitement dimmed. “This isn’t my birthday,” he whispered, sharing his memory of celebrating with his twin brother, Tommy, before being taken away.
The next day, Joey handed me a drawing of a lighthouse, telling me it was where he and Tommy went with Grandma Vivi. I promised to find it.
We drove to the coastal town, and after a cold reception from Vivi, Joey’s twin, Tommy, appeared, and the boys embraced. Inside, Vivi revealed she had been forced to choose which boy to keep after their parents died. “I thought it was the right thing, but I was wrong,” she said.
Joey, with his usual kindness, reassured her. “It’s okay, Grandma Vivi. I found Mom.” Joey and Tommy moved in with me, and every weekend, we visited Vivi and the lighthouse.
Family isn’t about perfect choices—it’s about finding your way back to each other.
Leave a Reply