My Boy But Not Mine.........
The first time I saw him, he was a blur of energy in the park, chasing after a soccer ball with the fervor of a future World Cup star. His laughter rang out, a high, joyous sound that tugged at something deep inside me. He couldn’t have been more than six years old, his sandy hair a tousled halo in the afternoon sun. I watched from a distance, hesitant yet unable to turn away.
I hadn’t expected to find him so soon, or at all. Not really. It had been six years since I signed those papers, six years since I gave him up for adoption, believing it was the best decision for him. I was young and scared, unable to offer the stability and care a child deserved. I thought I had made peace with it, but seeing him now, so full of life, made my heart ache in ways I couldn’t quite understand.
His adoptive parents were there, a loving couple whose faces I had only seen in a photograph in the adoption agency’s office. They watched him with pride and affection, completely unaware of my presence. I stayed hidden behind the large oak tree, feeling like an intruder in a life that could have been mine.
As days turned into weeks, I found myself returning to the park, drawn to the sight of him. I watched from a safe distance, never daring to approach, content with these stolen moments. I memorized his habits, the way he scrunched up his nose when he was concentrating, the way he kicked the ball with unbridled enthusiasm. He was my boy, but not mine, and that paradox was a constant, bittersweet companion.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows, he fell. It was a minor tumble, but his cry of pain sliced through me like a knife. Instinct took over, and before I knew it, I was at his side, helping him up. His eyes met mine, and for a split second, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition, a spark of something deep and unspoken.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice trembling.
He nodded, his tear-streaked face breaking into a small, brave smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, before his parents rushed over, enveloping him in their arms.
I stepped back, heart pounding, knowing it was time to go. But as I turned to leave, his mother approached me, gratitude in her eyes. “Thank you for helping him,” she said.
I managed a nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “He’s a special boy,” I said, and she smiled, not knowing how true those words were for me.
As I walked away, I felt a strange sense of peace. I had seen him and touched his life in a small way, and perhaps that was enough. He would never know me as his mother, but I would always carry him in my heart. My boy, but not mine. And that had to be enough.
THE END....
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Written by,
Your Joy
