I raised him after that. I packed his lunches, sat through his school plays, and held his forehead when he had fevers.
When he was six, he accidentally called me Mom for the first time.
I told him, “You can call me whatever feels right.”
He looked worried and whispered, “Did I hurt your feelings?”
I pulled him close and said, “No, sweetheart. Not even a little.”
Every year on my birthday, he brought me a yellow rose.
I would put my hands on my hips and say, “Stephen, did you steal Mrs. Carter’s flower?”
He would lift his chin proudly. “I borrowed it.”
“Flowers are not library books.”
“It’s for your birthday.”
I tried to stay stern. “You still have to apologize.”
He would sigh dramatically. “Can I apologize after you keep it?”
And I always kept it.
When he turned sixteen, he got a part-time job and bought one from a florist. He said, “Mine are okay, but yours should be perfect.”
