Twenty-seven years ago, my brother, Tommy, left his newborn son on my doorstep and disappeared. Now, as my nephew has grown into a successful man, Tommy has returned, blaming me for everything.
I’ll never forget that morning—finding a cold, crying baby in a thin blanket on my porch. It was Tommy’s son. I knew he wouldn’t come back, as he always ran from responsibility. Carl, my husband, was reluctant to keep him, but I couldn’t abandon the baby. We raised him as our own.
Two days ago, Michael, now a lawyer, came over for dinner. As we ate, I sensed the distance between us, despite my sacrifices. Just as we were talking, Tommy showed up—older and worn down. He claimed he had to leave Michael to protect him and blamed me for everything, saying I took the money he sent for the boy’s treatment.
Michael, confused, asked if it was true. I denied it, insisting Tommy never sent anything. Michael confronted his father, rejecting his claims and saying that I was the only mother he had ever known. Tommy left, and Michael, with newfound warmth, apologized for never showing affection. He then surprised me by gifting us a house by the ocean, covering everything.
Finally, after all these years, I felt like I truly had my son.