I never thought my past would knock on my door. One moment, I was serving tea to my seventeen-year-old son—the boy I’ve raised alone since he was born—and the next, a tall, broad-shouldered young man stood at my gate, speaking fluent but accented Japanese. "I’m your son," he said. My breath stopped. Eighteen years ago, I gave birth to a baby boy during a summer romance with an American exchange student. I gave him up, believing I’d never see him again. Now here he was—twenty-two, handsome, smiling with my eyes.

My younger son watched silently from the hallway, suspicion darkening his face. I invited the stranger in, trembling as I offered him tea. Every gesture reminded me of myself. He told me he came to find his roots, to meet the mother who let him go. How could I turn him away? I asked him to stay.

But that night, lying awake, I felt the weight of what I’d done. My younger son had just confessed his love. We were supposed to start anew. Now, something else stirs—dangerous, undeniable—as I hear my firstborn laugh downstairs. And I realize… I don’t want him to leave.