Stewart spent 13 years building walls around his heart. He refused to call Jennifer “Mom,” treating her love like an unwanted gift. Even after she passed, his anger followed her to the grave.
Then, one day, he found an envelope resting on her tombstone. Inside was a truth that shattered his world.
The linoleum floors of the orphanage squeaked beneath five-year-old Stewart’s worn sneakers. In his small hands, he clutched a matted teddy bear—the only constant in his life.
Other kids played and laughed around him, but Stewart stood apart. He had learned that joy wasn’t meant for boys like him. That love was for others.
Couples came and went, their smiles warm, their hands gentle—but never for him. Maybe he was too quiet. Maybe too sad. Maybe just… not enough.
Then one day, Jennifer walked in.
Her breath hitched when she saw him. She didn’t just see a lonely boy—she saw a wounded soul, a heart desperate for love but terrified to receive it.
“Hi there,” she said softly, crouching to his level.
Stewart flinched. Another adult. Another maybe. Another inevitable goodbye.
“Are you just going to look at me and leave?” His voice was barely a whisper, laced with quiet defiance.
Jennifer’s heart ached. Slowly, carefully, she extended her hand—not to touch, just to be there. “No, sweetheart. I’m here for you.”
Stewart studied her, searching for the lie. They all lied. They all left.
But she didn’t.
She took him home, gave him a bed, warm meals, bedtime stories. But Stewart never let his guard down. He refused to call her “Mom.” Just Jennifer.
She hoped time would heal him.
It didn’t.
