“I spent most of my adult life wishing I could be a mother.”
His expression softened.
“I know.”
“Thomas and I tried. We went to doctors. We considered adoption, but the timing and circumstances never worked out.”
I swallowed.
“Eventually, I stopped imagining what our children might have been like.”
Tears slipped down my face.
“And now, at seventy-two, a man is standing in front of me who has spent forty-six years wondering whether he was allowed to meet me.”
Julian began crying.
I squeezed his hand.
“I don't know whether I deserve to be called your mother.”
He shook his head.
“Margaret—”
“But I know I'd like to be your family.”
He covered his mouth.
Then he stepped forward.
And hugged me.
Not politely.
Not carefully.
He held me like a man who had waited a lifetime for someone to say he belonged.
I held him back.
And whispered:
