It Was Christmas When My Wife Died Giving Birth – Ten Years Later, a Stranger Came to My Door with a Devastating Demand

But I promise you this, I won’t disappear either. And I’ll make sure that everything is fair.”

“You think that this is about fairness?” I asked. “Liam is 10 years old, and he sleeps with a reindeer plush his mother picked out.

He still believes in Santa.”

“He also deserves to know where he comes from,” Spencer said. “I’m asking for one thing. Tell him the truth.

On Christmas.”

“Then don’t make a deal,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Make a choice.”

That afternoon, I went to the cemetery. But before I left, I sat at the kitchen table and let the memory come, the one I never let myself say out loud.

Ten years ago, on Christmas morning, Katie and I walked into the hospital holding hands.

It was Liam’s due date. Katie called him our “Christmas miracle” and bounced slightly on her toes, even though she was exhausted.

“If he looks like you,” she whispered, squeezing my hand, “I’m sending him back.”

We had a tiny stocking packed in the hospital bag. We had a name chosen.

And we had Katie’s private room waiting.

Then, just hours later, my wife’s hand went limp. Her head dropped, and chaos filled the room. They rushed her into surgery.

I paced outside in the waiting room.

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