We named him Julian.
Neighbors whispered. People often asked if he was our grandson. “He’s our son,” I would reply.
We were constantly exhausted—sleepless nights, aching backs, Harold nodding off while sitting up. But every time Julian wrapped his tiny fist around my finger, it made everything worthwhile.
From the beginning, we told him the truth: “You were left at our door. Nobody left a note, but we chose you. You’re ours.”
He would nod and return to playing with his toys. Sometimes he asked, “Do you think my other mom thinks about me?”
“I hope so,” I’d say. “But I know I think about you every day.”
Julian grew into a kind and curious boy—loyal, protective, and the type of student teachers adored. People kept assuming we were his grandparents. He would grin and say, “No, they’re just old.”
He went to college, found a job in IT, called us every week, and visited most Sundays. Life felt complete.
Then, when Julian was 23, there came another knock at the door. Calm this time, not rushed or desperate.
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