Lately, my son Kyle had been coming home late, giving vague excuses. Worried, I followed him after school one day—and was stunned to see him step into a convoy of black SUVs. I followed them to a massive estate, heart pounding. At the gate, I demanded to see my son. A wealthy woman tried to turn me away, but Kyle appeared and let me in.
Inside, I was shocked to see Kyle’s father—the man who abandoned us before Kyle was born. He claimed he’d been searching for us and wanted custody now that he was rich. “I can give him a better life,” he said arrogantly. I was speechless with rage, but Kyle stood tall.
“I only took the money and gifts to help my mom,” Kyle said. “You mean nothing to me. You left us.” His father looked stunned. We left without looking back.
The next day, someone delivered a bag of cash with a note from Kyle’s father: “I just wanted to make things right.” Kyle frowned. “We don’t need his money.”
I smiled and squeezed his hand. “No, but maybe now we can breathe. Together.”
Whatever came next, we’d face it—side by side.
