I stared at him. “What?”

“She had terminal cancer,” he said quietly. “She’s gone.”

With shaky hands, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the photograph—the one Vivian had sent on Christmas Eve. He placed it in my hands as carefully as if it might shatter.

I turned it over, my own hands now trembling.

The handwriting was neat but faded, as though it had been written with the last strength Vivian had left.

“I have cancer. The doctors say I have weeks, maybe days. I found your address through an old friend. I hope that’s okay. I’m sending this photo because I need you to know about my son. He needs someone. He’ll be alone when I’m gone. Logan, you’re the only person I trust with his heart. Please… promise me you’ll be there.”

Beneath that, a phone number and an address.

“She sent that photo to say goodbye,” Logan explained softly. “But she also wanted me to know about the boy in the photo. His name’s Aiden. He has Down syndrome.”

I stared at my husband, trying to process what he was saying. My stomach flipped.

“She left you years ago. And now she wants you to… what? Raise her child?”

“She didn’t ask me directly,” he added, his voice breaking slightly. “Not in words. But she had no one else. Her husband left after Aiden was diagnosed. No family. No support. Just her and the boy.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in.

“And you just left your family to go to her? Without telling me? Without a single word for six months?”

“I was in shock, Claire. I didn’t know what I was walking into. I thought maybe I’d be gone a few days, help her figure things out. But when I got there…”

He rubbed his face as if he’d been holding everything in for months.

“She was already dying.”

Logan looked me in the eye, and for the first time, I saw the weight of it all crushing him.

“I stayed. I took care of her… and Aiden. I didn’t mean to be gone that long. But after she passed, I couldn’t just leave him there. He had nowhere to go, no one who wanted him.”

I stayed silent because my chest was too full—anger and heartbreak fighting for the same space.

Everything he said made sense and yet somehow didn’t, all at once.

Logan rose slowly and walked toward the hallway.

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

He called out softly, his tone gentler than before. “Aiden? Hey, buddy. Come here.”

A moment later, a boy peeked around the corner, cautious and unsure.

He had wide brown eyes and soft, round cheeks. In his arms, he clutched a teddy bear like it was the only thing anchoring him in a world that felt too large and unfamiliar.

He looked at me and smiled—nervous, but hopeful.

Something inside me cracked open right then.

I was still angry. Furious, even.

But I’m a mother.

And what I saw in that boy’s face wasn’t manipulation or guilt or anything complicated.

It was hope. And a little fear.

The first few weeks were brutal—like walking on broken glass every day.

I didn’t know how to speak to Logan without wanting to yell. I didn’t know how to look at Aiden without my throat tightening.

But we tried, because sometimes trying is all you can do.

Aiden was gentle, curious, and kind in a way that made staying angry nearly impossible.

He trailed after Harper and Owen, copying everything they did, as if he were learning the rules of belonging. They never questioned it. Children rarely do.

One evening, Logan sat beside me and whispered, “Would you think about adopting him? He needs us, Claire. I can’t walk away from him—but I don’t want to lose you either.”

I stared at him, overwhelmed by everything at once.

“You’re asking me to raise your first love’s child? A boy with special needs? After vanishing for six months?”

“Yes,” he said calmly, holding my gaze. “I know it’s a lot. But I know you. I know your heart.”

I looked at him for a long moment, tears running freely down my face.

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