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When they placed him in my arms, he didn’t cry. He just stared right into me like he was trying to figure me out. Then, slowly, he reached out and wrapped his tiny hand around my finger, holding it tightly as if he already knew I belonged to him.
That was the moment everything changed. He wasn’t ours by blood, but by something deeper. I don’t know what to call it, but I’ve felt it every day since.
A truck ran a red light while they were driving home from a weekend trip. It was one phone call. Just one. The kind that comes too late in the night and takes everything from you.
And just like that, I was 64 and a mother again.
Grief hardens you in places you didn’t know existed. There are mornings when I feel pain in bones I can’t even name. My fingers lock up when I knit too long. My knees ache halfway through the market. But I keep going. Because Ben’s still here. He’s all that matters now.
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