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There was no reason for him to know that I had wanted to be a mother for my entire life. That some naive, probably irrational part of me thought that having a child of my own would help heal the open wound of my mother’s loss.
Wishful thinking, I was sure. I’d promised myself that if I ever had the opportunity, I wouldn’t use my child as a tool to fix my own life. But I’d meant it when I said that I loved him with all of my heart.
I did.
And there was no way I wouldn’t have kept him.
“Because he—and you—are my family,” he said quietly.
“What?” I said, his voice drawing me out of my thoughts.
“You asked why I came after you. That’s why. Because that baby is my family. And you are my family,” he said, his voice quiet, more certain than I had ever heard it.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
