Twenty-seven years ago, my brother Tommy abandoned his newborn son—my nephew—on my doorstep and vanished. My husband and I took the baby in, raised him as our own, and named him Michael. He grew up to be a successful lawyer, respectful but always a bit distant—never calling me “Mom.”

Then, just days ago, Tommy returned out of nowhere, ragged and angry. He claimed I’d stolen money he sent for Michael’s care and blamed me for ruining his life. Michael, stunned to meet his biological father, listened carefully but ultimately rejected Tommy’s lies. “You’re not my father,” he said. “She is the only parent I’ve ever known.” Tommy left in silence, defeated. Moments later, Michael turned to me with tears in his eyes and said, “You’re my real mother. I’m grateful for everything.” Then he revealed he’d bought a house by the ocean—for me and my husband—as a thank-you for the life we gave him. That day, I truly felt I had found my son.