"I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore."
I read it three times. Then I looked down at Stefan and Noah, sleeping against my chest, and I knew.
Eighteen years. Not one word from Tessa. Not one.
"You're mine now," I whispered. "Both of you. I promise."
The adoption took months of paperwork, questions, and sleepless nights, but I never doubted it for a second.
The years compressed into a blur of double shifts and lunchboxes. I learned which toy car Noah hid under his pillow, which song Stefan needed before bed. I painted their rooms myself, one blue, one green, because they could never agree on a color. I never missed a school play, not even the one where Stefan forgot his lines and stared at me until I mouthed them back.
Eighteen years. Not one word from Tessa. Not one.
Noah came down the stairs in his cap and gown, quiet as a mouse.
The morning of graduation, I stood in the kitchen pressing the wrinkles out of Stefan's collar while he bounced on his heels.
"Mom, you're going to burn a hole through it," he laughed.
"Then stand still."
Noah came down the stairs in his cap and gown, quiet as a mouse. He kept patting his inside jacket pocket like something might fall out.
"You feeling okay, sweetheart?" I asked.
He gave me a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I just want today to be over."
I watched him pour coffee he didn't drink. Stefan was already at the door, jingling the keys.
"Over? It hasn't even started."
"I know," he said. "That's the part I'm not ready for."
I watched him pour coffee he didn't drink. Stefan was already at the door, jingling the keys.
"Come on, slowpokes. I'm not graduating without an audience."
In the car, the radio played something cheerful that nobody listened to. Noah stared out the window the whole drive, one hand still pressed against that pocket.
I parked in the school lot, and we stepped out into the morning light.
"Noah," I tried again, "is something bothering you?"
"No, Mom."
"You'd tell me if there was."
