I became a mother at seventeen.
For eighteen years, I believed the boy I loved had walked away from us.
Then my son took a DNA test.
And one message unraveled everything I thought I knew.
I had been home maybe fifteen minutes when Leo walked into the kitchen looking like something had broken inside him.
The cake I was decorating still said CONGRATS, LEO! in uneven blue icing. I hadn’t even finished the border.
“Hey,” I said, glancing up. “You look awful. Please tell me you didn’t eat Grandpa’s potato salad again.”
He didn’t smile.
That’s when I put the piping bag down.
“Leo?”
He stood there, phone in his hand, gripping it too tight. Pale. Quiet. Not my easygoing kid.
