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

Moments later, a doctor placed a silent, still body in my arms.

“This is your son,” she said gently.

I held him against my chest. I begged. I pleaded…

and then he cried.

I took that cry and built a life around it, promising to keep my son happy and healthy.

Now, I wasn’t sure how to keep that promise.

On Christmas morning, Liam padded into the living room in reindeer pajamas and climbed onto the couch beside me. He carried the same plush toy Katie had picked out when we still argued about diaper brands and parenting styles.

“You’re quiet, Dad,” he said. “That usually means something is wrong.”

I handed my son a small wrapped box and took a breath.

“Is it about the cookies?” he asked.

He listened to every single word, not interrupting once.

“Does that mean you’re not my real dad?” he asked.

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