My heart shattered.
“I remember waiting for my mom.”
I covered my mouth and sobbed.
He looked down at the bottle.
“I had a red shirt.”
“Yes,” I cried. “Yes, baby.”
His eyes filled with tears.
For a moment, he looked like the eight-year-old boy I had lost.
Then, after eighteen years, my son looked at me and whispered the word I thought I would never hear again.
“Mom?”
I touched his face with both hands.
He was not eight anymore.
I had missed his birthdays.
His school years.
His first job.
His wedding.
The birth of his little boy.
I would never get those years back.
But I had him.
I had my son.
Later that night, we sat together in his kitchen. His wife held his hand. His little boy slept in the next room.
Ethan looked at me and asked quietly:
“Did you ever stop looking for me?”
