My father kicked me out when I was 18 for getting pregnant by a guy he said was “worthless.”
That guy vanished, and I raised my son on my own. On his 18th birthday, he looked me in the eye and said, “I want to meet Grandpa.” We drove to my childhood home.
As we parked, he told me, “Stay in the car.” I watched him knock. My father opened the door.
I was shocked when I saw what my son did next. He slowly reached into his backpack and pulled out a worn photograph—one I hadn’t seen in years.
It was the only picture he had of the three of us: me at eighteen, swollen with hope and fear… my father standing stiffly beside me… and the blurry sonogram I had proudly held in my hands.
My boy lifted the photo with both trembling palms.
“Sir,” he said softly—his voice steady but filled with something deeper than anger—“I think you dropped something a long time ago.”
