I was making soup when David finally came home late from work — holding a crying baby. “We don’t have kids,” I stammered. “Why are you holding a baby?”“He was on our doorstep,” David said. “No note. Nothing.” When I pulled back the blanket, I froze. A tiny crescent-shaped birthmark sat near his thumb. My
sister Lily had the same one. She’d disappeared months ago after a fight. “He’s Lily’s,” I whispered. We should have called the police, but when the baby grasped my finger, I knew. We would raise him. We named him Ethan.Thirteen years later, he was ours in every way that mattered — tall, funny, calling us Mom and Dad. Until one afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was Lily. Polished, wealthy, and trembling. “I want my son back,” she said.
“I can give him everything now — schools, a big house, opportunities.”Before I could answer, Ethan appeared. “You’re my birth mom, aren’t you?” “Yes,” she said gently. “Come with me.” Ethan shook his head. “Home? This is my home. You don’t know me. You weren’t there when I broke my arm, or when I won my first trophy. They were. Family isn’t blood — it’s love. And I already have one.”
Lily’s eyes filled with tears. She looked at me, then at Ethan, and whispered, “You’ve raised him well.” She left without another word. Ethan exhaled hard. “I don’t get how she could leave me like that.” David hugged him tight. “Some mistakes can’t be undone. But you’ve got us. Always.” And as if fate wanted to seal our family even more, a week later I found out I was pregnant.