It was a lie. I loved you. I loved you my whole life.
I said the cruelest thing I could think of because I wanted to make leaving easier. I wanted you angry enough not to stop me.”
I closed my eyes. He whispered, “I called another woman Mom because she gave birth to me.
But when my daughter was born, the only mother I wanted was you.”
That did it. I sat down hard on the porch step and cried in a way I had not let myself cry in years. He crouched a few feet away but did not touch me.
After a while, he said, “Do I still get to call you Mom?”
I looked at him. At the man he had become. At the boy still buried in his face.
At the damage. I said, “Not for free.”
He blinked. I stood, took the key from my pocket, and unlocked the front door.
Inside, the cottage was full of things he remembered from old conversations. A blue kettle. A yellow blanket.
A reading chair by the window. On the mantel was a framed picture of a newborn baby. On the back, written in shaky pen, were the words: “She deserves to know her grandmother.”
I pressed the frame to my chest.
Then I turned to him and said, “You can call me Mom when you earn being my son again.”
He nodded. Three days later, he brought the baby to my house. At the door, he said, “We can leave if this is too much.”
I looked at the little bundle in his arms.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Come inside.”
He handed her to me. She opened her eyes, yawned, and wrapped her tiny hand around my finger.
Stephen laughed through tears. On my next birthday, the doorbell rang. When I opened it, Stephen was there holding his daughter.
In his free hand was a fresh yellow rose. He said, “Happy birthday, Mom.”
This time, he stayed.
