“I can’t do this anymore.”
That’s what my sister said before abandoning her four-year-old disabled son at my door. No tears. No guilt. Just, “I met someone. He doesn’t want kids.” Then she drove away and never looked back.
I was 27, broke, single—and suddenly a full-time caregiver. The years were brutal: therapies, medical bills, two jobs, sleepless nights. But Evan never complained. He smiled through pain. He tried harder than anyone I knew.
Ten years later, he was thriving—brilliant, kind, and just accepted into an elite scholarship.
That’s when my sister came back.
“I’m here to take my son,” she said.
She hadn’t called once in a decade.
I looked her in the eye and said, “You can’t. I adopted him.”
Evan stood beside me and whispered, “You didn’t want me then.”
She left again.
This time, I closed the door—holding my son.
Love did what blood never could. 
