I pulled him against me.
For years, this boy had tried to make himself small.
Polite.
Easy.
Perfect.
Now he finally collapsed.
Four years of grief came pouring out against my shoulder.
“You should have told me,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“But listen to me.”
I pulled back.
“You are my son.”
He stared at me.
“You are not going anywhere.”
His face crumpled.
“Adoption is not a trial period, Luke. You cannot misbehave your way out of being my child.”
A small broken laugh escaped him.
“You’re stuck with me forever.”
His entire body seemed to loosen.
And while I held him, I made myself a promise.
I was going to find Emma.
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