“I wish I were.”
My mind spun. For years, I’d told myself he was dead, or at least long gone. That man had left me with nothing but a broken heart and a baby to raise. The thought that he had tried to find us—it was almost too much to believe.
“What did you tell him?” my son asked quietly.
My father looked down. “I told him you didn’t want to see him. I thought I was protecting you both.”
The words slammed into me like a punch to the gut. All those years. All those birthdays, those lonely nights, the endless questions my son asked about his father—and my father had kept the truth hidden.
I stood up, trembling. “You decided for me again,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. “You took my choice away twice in one lifetime.”
My father looked broken, his eyes red, his voice barely a whisper. “I know. I’ve paid for it every day. He left me his number. I’ve kept it in my desk all these years. I never threw it away.”
My son rose too. “Do you still have it?”
He nodded slowly. “Top drawer. Left side.”
My son disappeared down the hallway, and I could hear the creak of the old drawer opening. I sat back down, trying to breathe. My father watched me like a man drowning in regret.
When my son came back, he held a small slip of yellowed paper. The ink was faded, but the number was still legible. He looked at me. “Mom?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was shaking. I had spent eighteen years believing that man was gone forever. Could I handle opening that wound again?
But then I looked at my son—this strong, kind young man who had never known his father—and I realized this wasn’t just my decision anymore.
“Call him,” I whispered.
My son dialed the number. Each ring felt like a lifetime. Then, a man’s voice answered—older, rougher, but somehow familiar.
“Hello?”
My son swallowed hard. “Hi… my name’s Tyler. I think you might be my father.”
There was silence. Then a sound—a small, broken gasp.
“Tyler?” the man said, voice trembling. “Oh my God. You sound just like her.”
My eyes filled with tears. I could hear his voice through the phone, the man I once loved, the one who vanished before I could even tell him our baby’s name. My whole body shook.
Tyler handed me the phone. My fingers felt like ice as I brought it to my ear. “It’s me,” I whispered.
For a long time, he didn’t speak. Then, softly, “I’ve waited so long to hear your voice again.”
The dam broke. Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Why didn’t you come back sooner?”
“I tried,” he said. “I looked everywhere. Your father told me you wanted nothing to do with me. I thought I’d lost you both.” His voice cracked. “I’ve been sober for ten years now. I’ve got a small repair shop in Oregon. I never stopped thinking about you.”
My father turned away, his shoulders shaking.
I closed my eyes. I wanted to hate both of them—one for leaving, one for lying—but all I could feel was relief, bittersweet and overwhelming.
Tyler asked if we could meet. I looked at my son, who nodded silently. And so, a week later, we drove to Oregon.
When we pulled up to the small auto shop, a man stepped out—a little older, a little grayer, but with the same kind eyes I remembered. When our eyes met, everything else disappeared.
He smiled through tears. “You look exactly how I remember.”
I didn’t speak. I just stepped forward and hugged him, the years between us collapsing into that single embrace. My son joined us, and for the first time in eighteen years, we were together.
Later, sitting on the shop’s front porch, my son said quietly, “So… what now?”
Tyler looked at me, his eyes full of hope. “Now,” he said softly, “we start again.”
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet, I finally felt it—the peace I’d been chasing my whole life. Not the perfect kind, but the real kind. The kind that comes when you stop running from the past and start forgiving it.
For the first time in decades, I wasn’t the broken girl who’d been kicked out or the woman who’d raised her son alone. I was just me—a mother, a daughter, and a woman finally coming home.
