It was the waitress. Her face was pale, her hands trembling slightly.
“I’m so sorry for what happened inside,” she said. “That wasn’t right.”
I froze. Something in her voice — a fragile mix of fear and hope — told me this wasn’t idle curiosity.
“No,” I said softly. “My daughter adopted him five years ago. She and her husband… they passed away last year. I’ve been raising him since.”
Her eyes filled instantly. “His birthday,” she whispered, “is it September 11th?”
My heart pounded. “Yes.”
She covered her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. “I had a baby boy that day,” she said. “I was nineteen, broke, and alone. I gave him up for adoption. I’ve thought about him every day since.”
I didn’t know what to say. The air between us felt heavy with disbelief and something holy — the kind of moment that rearranges everything you thought you knew.
“I’m not asking for anything,” she said through tears. “I just had to know. I saw him, and I felt it — like something inside me woke up.”
I reached for her hand. “Ben needs love and stability. If you want to be part of his life, we can figure that out. But only if you’re sure.”
A New Beginning
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