He had been living with a woman who believed he was her own child, and a man who eventually realized the harm and brought him back to me. The investigation moved quickly, and authorities located those responsible. Through all of it, Evan clung to me, afraid of being taken again. When Child Protective Services suggested temporary placement, I refused to let him out of my sight, and the detective supported me. That night, I brought him home. He touched his old toys, walked through familiar rooms, and asked if he could sleep in his own bed again. I stayed beside him until he drifted off, his small hand gripping my sleeve as though letting go would mean losing everything again
Since his return, we’ve begun therapy together, learning how to rebuild a life that was abruptly broken and miraculously restored. He still checks to make sure I’m close by, and I reassure him every time that I’m here and not going anywhere. There are difficult moments, but there are also joys I never thought I’d experience again—little footsteps on the floor, toys underfoot, a small voice calling “Mom, watch this!” from the yard. One evening while coloring at the table, he looked up and said, “I like home better.” And I knew he meant here, with me. Some nights I still stand in his doorway, watching his chest rise and fall, grateful beyond measure. Two years ago, I said goodbye. Last Thursday, with three soft knocks, he came home
