Owen sighed, rubbing his head. “We can’t keep him, Flora.
This isn’t our duty,” he said, his voice steady but firm, like he was trying to talk sense into me before I got too attached. “But look at him,” I pleaded, holding the baby a bit higher, as if Owen could see the need in my nephew’s eyes like I could. “He’s so tiny, and he’s cold.
There was a long, heavy pause. Owen looked at the baby again, then at me. I could see the struggle in his eyes—he was trying to be practical, trying to save us from a choice that could change our lives.
But I knew he had a warm heart. He always did, even when he tried to act tough. We didn’t fight.
We didn’t talk much more that day. We just did what was needed. We kept him.
We fed him, cleaned him, and found clothes that fit. And when night fell, we rocked him to sleep in our arms. That was 27 years ago.
Two days ago, he came over for dinner. He was in town for work and stopped by. As Rory and I sat down to eat, I watched him closely, noticing how he sat tall, his words careful and clear.
He was every bit the successful lawyer now. He’d just come from a case in Manhattan and told me about the long hours, the meetings, the deals he was wrapping up. His eyes shone when he talked about his work, and I couldn’t help but feel proud.
But there was a distance between us, always had been. Even as we shared a meal, I could feel it. I had raised him and given up so much, but there was a wall he never crossed.
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