83
Not in the way he thought, not in the way I had dreamed of. The child sitting in my back seat couldn’t be here because my son—my real son—was gone. I had given him away ten years ago, handed him over to strangers with trembling hands and a broken heart before I could even hold him long enough to memorize his face.
I remember the couple as vividly as if it were yesterday.
Laura and Mitchell Hayes, both in their early forties, had walked into the adoption agency with an air of calm and warmth that immediately put me at ease. Laura, petite and kind-eyed, had short-cropped auburn hair streaked with silver. Her voice was soft, measured, as though she were afraid to disturb the delicate world around her. Mitchell, a tall man with a sturdy frame and a salt-and-pepper beard, radiated steady reassurance. They had been trying for a child for years, Laura told me in a voice thick with longing, and had almost given up hope. But now, they had a chance—a chance to love and raise a child they could call their own.
When I handed my son to Laura, my arms felt like lead as I fought the instinct to clutch him back. She had cradled him with a reverence that shattered something deep inside me, her tears falling freely as she kissed his tiny forehead. Mitchell had stood beside her, his large hands trembling as he rested them on her shoulders, his own eyes misting with unspoken gratitude.
I had watched them walk away with him, their steps careful, deliberate, as if carrying the most fragile thing in the world. And in a way, they were.
But I hadn’t been able to let go completely.
Over the years, I had found ways to be near him, to see him from a distance without disrupting his new life. It became an obsession I couldn’t break, a need to know that he was happy, that he was loved.
When he was two, I had followed them to a park on West 93rd Street, watching from the shadows as Laura pushed him on a swing, her laughter ringing out like a melody. His little legs kicked in delight, his face alight with joy. I stayed until the sun dipped below the horizon, unable to tear myself away.
When he was four, I stood across the street from their townhouse on East 84th, just a block away from Central Park. It was a modest brownstone, cozy and unassuming, with flower boxes brimming with colorful blooms. I had watched as Mitchell carried him on his shoulders, the two of them laughing as they disappeared inside.
When he started kindergarten at PS 87 William T. Sherman School on West 78th, I began making trips to stand outside the building. I’d watch as he ran out at dismissal, his tiny backpack bouncing against his back as Laura knelt to scoop him into her arms. She always greeted him with a kiss on his cheek, smoothing his hair as he chattered excitedly about his day.
The last time I saw him was two years ago, just after his eighth birthday. It was outside the school again, and I was hiding behind a lamppost, my heart hammering in my chest as I searched the sea of children for him. Then I saw him—taller now, his frame leaner, his movements more confident. But his wild, dark hair was still the same, messy and untamed, and his sparkling green eyes, so full of life, were unmistakable.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as I watched him run toward the gate. He looked so happy, his laughter carrying on the crisp autumn air as he darted through the crowd of parents. And there she was, Laura, standing on the other side with her usual quiet patience. When he spotted her, his face lit up in a way that felt like a knife twisting deep in my chest. He threw himself into her arms, and she knelt down to hug him, her hands cradling his head like he was the most precious thing in the world.
It should have been me.
Something about that moment broke me.
I stood there, frozen, as he pulled back to show her a drawing from his school bag, his little hands gesturing excitedly while she smiled and listened. She smoothed his hair like she always did, planting a kiss on his forehead as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was, because he fit so perfectly with her, with them. He was theirs in every way that mattered.
And I was just...a ghost.
That night, I cried harder than I had in years. Not the quiet, controlled tears I’d learned to shed in silence, but the kind of crying that comes from the deepest, rawest parts of you. The kind that leaves you gasping for air, clutching at your chest as if you can physically stop the ache. I cried until my throat burned, until my pillow was soaked, until I was too exhausted to feel anything anymore.
It wasn’t just the pain of loss, it was the realization that I had no place in his life. He was happy. He was loved. He was cared for. And yet, the selfish part of me wanted to reach out, to claim even the smallest piece of him for myself.
But I couldn’t. I swore I wouldn’t.
That night, I made a promise to myself. I wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t stand outside his school, or his house, or his favorite park. I wouldn’t torture myself by watching what I could never have. It wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to me.
And for two years, I kept that promise.
But now, here he was. Or at least, some piece of him—this boy in my car with those same green eyes that cut through me like glass. And for the first time in years, I wasn’t sure I could hold myself together.
I glanced at him in the mirror again, and my breath caught. The resemblance was undeniable. His features mirrored Dominic’s so closely, but there were pieces of me too—my nose, the curve of my lips, the slight tilt of his head when he was curious.
“Mom?” he said again, his small voice cutting through the haze, pulling me back to the present like a slap to the face.
I swallowed hard, my chest impossibly tight. This wasn’t real. He couldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here.
But he was.
Before I could even respond, a deafening honk erupted behind me, followed by another.
Blare. Blare. Fucking blare.
I panicked, my hands fumbling as I pressed hard on the ignition. The engine sputtered once, twice, refusing to turn over. A sharp wave of terror surged through me.
“Move, lady!” a voice shouted from behind, followed by another relentless blast of the horn.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered to myself, twisting the key with trembling fingers. The engine finally roared to life, jerking the car forward with a violent lurch.
The squeal of tires filled my ears as I slammed into the car ahead—a dark Jeep with a baby-on-board sticker plastered crookedly on the rear windshield. Metal crunched against metal, the sound loud and gut-wrenching. My chest slammed into the steering wheel, knocking the air from my lungs.
“Fuck,” I gasped, my vision swimming.
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