When I met Adam, he was a silent five-year-old in foster care, abandoned by a mother who chose a new life without him. He clutched a toy car and wouldn’t speak. I promised to give him the love and stability he deserved.
When he asked about his mother, I lied. I told him she had died when he was two. I believed it was kinder than telling him she had left by choice. I thought I was protecting his fragile heart.
Over the years, he grew into a thoughtful, intelligent young man. Now in his final year of college, he recently came home distant and withdrawn. Days later, he disappeared without answering my calls.
When he returned, his eyes were swollen from crying. He handed me a newspaper—his mother’s obituary. She had died five years ago, not when he was two.
“You lied to me,” he said. “You took away my chance to know her.”
My attempt to shield him had stolen years he could have had. I meant to protect him from pain, but instead I delayed it—and deepened it. Now all I can do is admit my mistake and hope that love, even flawed love, will one day be enough for forgiveness.
