Not because I was the one who gave birth to him, but because I stayed.
I was there through every tear and triumph, and to him, that’s what made me his mother. Macy, heartbroken, asked to remain in touch.
We agreed to talk about it someday—but not today.
Back home, something had changed. Max began introducing me as his mom.
He smiled more. Hugged me tighter. One night, he whispered, “You didn’t have to love me—but you did anyway. That’s real.”
The wall he’d once built began to crumble, brick by brick.
And as I tucked him into bed, I realized something profound: motherhood isn’t defined by blood—it’s defined by presence, by the quiet decision to show up every single day and love without conditions.
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