For a second, I honestly thought grief had finally broken my brain.
The man standing on my porch had Liam’s eyes. Same nervous habit of rubbing his thumb against his wrist when he talked. But older. Mid-thirties maybe. Tired-looking. Like someone who hadn’t slept properly in years.
He kept glancing past me toward the Christmas tree inside.
“I’m not here to hurt anybody,” he said quietly. “I just need to know if he’s okay.”
I asked who he was.
He swallowed hard before answering.
“My wife donated organs ten years ago after a car accident on Christmas Eve. We were told the recipients would stay anonymous, but a nurse accidentally said one went to a newborn baby boy at County General.” His voice cracked a little. “Your son.”
I didn’t even realize Liam had walked into the hallway behind me until the man looked up and froze.
Because my son was standing there wearing the exact same faded green hoodie visible in the photo the stranger slowly pulled from his wallet.
A photo of his dead wife.
Eight months pregnant.