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He grew up without parents, bounced between foster homes and group facilities. My mom was a teacher at his middle school.
He was her favorite student, the one she worried about, the one who reminded her that kindness mattered.
He was quiet, gentle. Always watching, always grateful, always trying not to take up too much space.
I remembered him now. Not the man sitting across from me with tired eyes and a baby in his arms.
But the boy who read books by the fire and helped me catch frogs by the stream.
We talked for hours that day.
The baby slept between us, wrapped up tight and oblivious to the weight of the conversation happening around her.
He told me everything.
How he’d always loved me, even as a child. How he knew it was silly and impossible and not something that could ever be real.
He never believed he was good enough. He had no money, no family, and no future worth offering anyone.
He wanted to prove himself.
Then he fell in love with someone else.
Her name was Claire, and she worked at the coffee shop near his apartment. They married quickly, quietly, and were briefly happy.
And then came the pregnancy.
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