Twenty-seven years ago, my brother left his newborn son on my doorstep, vanishing without a word. Now, just as my nephew has grown into the successful man I always hoped he’d be, my brother is back, and he’s blaming me for everything. I’ll never forget that morning 27 years ago.
I opened the door, and there he was—a tiny baby wrapped in a thin blanket that hardly kept him warm. The cloth was old and worn, not enough to protect him from the cold morning. He lay in a basket, his face red from crying, his little hands curled tight.
