AFTER MY WIFE DIED, I CAST HER SON OUT — TEN YEARS LATER, THE TRUTH FOUND ME… AND IT DESTROYED ME. I remember the sound his backpack made when it hit the floor. Too loud. Too final. He was twelve — skinny, silent, standing in my living room like a stranger who’d overstayed his welcome. “Leave,” I said, my voice flat, almost bored. “You’re not my son. Your mother is gone. I owe you nothing.” He didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Didn’t ask why. He simply bent down, picked up his bag, and walked out the door

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