I became my grandson’s guardian when he was two after his father admitted he wasn’t ready and his mother disappeared. A toddler needed someone steady, so I stepped in. I learned his routines, soothed his fevers, packed his lunches, and built my life around him. For years, it was just us.
When he was twelve, his mother returned with a lawyer and reclaimed custody. I begged her to let him choose, but the law didn’t bend. I’ll never forget his tears as they drove away. After that, there was only silence. No calls. No letters. I kept his room the same and baked a small cake every birthday, even when I ate it alone.
On his eighteenth birthday, there was a knock at the door.
He stood there — taller, older, but with the same eyes — and held me as he cried. “I thought about you every day,” he said. Then he placed keys in my hand.
“I’m eighteen now. I can choose. I rented us a house — no stairs for you.”
He had saved for years, planning to come back.
Now we cook together and make up for lost time. Some years can’t be reclaimed, but love built in bedtime stories and quiet devotion never disappears.
He was taken from my house — but never from my heart.
And now, he is home.
