My boyfriend left me when I was pregnant because his mother didn’t like me. I’ve raised my son alone for 17 years. Today, I ran into his mother. She burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I’ve been looking for you all these years.”

“He panicked. He’s always been a sensitive guy, you know that. And when he saw me so distraught, when he thought I was capable of doing something like that…” She let out a sob and covered her mouth. “He begged me not to.” I assured him that the only way to keep me alive was for him to break up with you. To leave for good.

I felt nauseous. A bitter taste settled in my throat.

Seventeen years ago, I thought he was just a coward. Irresponsible. A grown man. I never imagined that behind his abandonment lay such brutal manipulation.

“And then?” I insisted, clinging to the last shred of strength I had left.

“Then…” he said, his voice breaking, “he fell into a terrible depression. He dropped out of school, he abandoned his friends. I tried to fix what he’d destroyed, but it was too late. He didn’t want to see me. He barely spoke. And a year later…” He swallowed, trying to stifle his sobs. “A year later… he died. A motorcycle accident. He was alone.”

My breath caught in my throat. A thick silence enveloped us.
He was dead. The father of my child. The boy who left me crying on a park bench, telling me he couldn’t handle it. The same one who never came back, not a call, not a message. He… had been gone for sixteen years.

His mother covered her face with her hands.

“I’ve lived with this guilt every day of my life. And when I finally mustered the courage to look for you, I didn’t know where to begin. I lost track of you. You moved to a different neighborhood, a different job… I didn’t know if I wanted you to find me or if I was terrified you would.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Part of me burned with anger. Another part… was simply exhausted.

But something changed. A door that had been closed for over a decade had just swung open.