How was I supposed to stop loving him because of a piece of paper?
So I made a choice.
I stayed.
I fought for visitation rights.
I paid for school supplies, braces, summer camps, and college savings.
I attended every graduation ceremony and every birthday party.
And I never once told Noah about the DNA test.
As far as I was concerned, he was my son.
Years passed.
When Noah turned seventeen, his biological father reached out for the first time. Apparently, he had recently discovered Noah existed and wanted to establish contact.
I hated it.
Not because I was jealous.
Because I was terrified.
Terrified that after all these years, blood would matter more than love.
The man was wealthy. Very wealthy.
He owned several businesses and lived in a mansion that looked like something from a magazine.
I couldn’t compete with that.
Still, I kept my fears to myself.
Noah deserved answers.
The two met.
Then, a few months later, tragedy struck.
His biological father passed away unexpectedly from a heart condition.
The shock left everyone reeling.
A few weeks later, lawyers contacted Noah.
The man had left him a substantial inheritance.
Enough money to change a young person’s life forever.
On Noah’s eighteenth birthday, the funds were released.
That same week, he packed his bags.
“I need some time,” he told me.
