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No messages. Days turned into weeks, and the silence became unbearable. The house felt empty in a way I had never experienced before.
I told myself he needed space—but deep down, I was terrified I had lost him, not because of blood, but because the truth had finally caught up with us. On the twenty-fifth day, my neighbor called and told me someone had been sitting on my porch for hours. When I got home, I saw him there—my son—quiet, uncertain, like he didn’t know if he still belonged.