I Always Gave a Few Dollars to a Homeless Man on My Way to Work — on Christmas Eve, He Said, ‘Don’t Go Home Today…There’s Something You Don’t Know!’

And the logo of Child Protective Services.

My mouth went dry.

“What is this?” I whispered.

“They came to your house last night,” Robert said. “Social worker. Thought Evan still lived there.

Left that in your mailbox. I took it.”

“You took my mail?” I said weakly.

“I didn’t want you finding it alone,” he said. “Open it.”

My hands shook as I tore it open.

Inside were letters and forms.

Legal language about “minor child” and “paternal rights.”

All under Evan’s name.

Paper-clipped to one letter was a photo.

A boy, maybe 10, with messy dark hair and eyes that looked like Evan’s.

I made a sound I didn’t recognize.

“He has a son,” I whispered.

“Had,” Robert said gently.

“From long before you. He never cheated on you, Claire.”

I stared at the photo, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

“Explain,” I managed.

“Back when we were idiots on job sites,” Robert said, “he dated a woman for a few months. It ended.

She left town. Later he heard she might be pregnant. When he tried to find her, she was gone.

New name, new state, no trail.”

He sighed.

“He looked on and off for years,” he went on. “Then he met you. Life changed.

But he never completely stopped wondering.”

“And then?” I asked.

“A couple years ago, he found her,” Robert said. “Found out the boy was real. He reached out.

She shut him down. Didn’t want him involved.”

My grip tightened on the photo.

“He never told me,” I said.

“He was already sick,” Robert said quietly. “He didn’t want to dump this on you while you were holding his whole world together.

He planned to explain when there was something hopeful to offer. Then the cancer moved faster than he could.”

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