When I was 25, I drove a school bus. Not my dream job, but it paid the bills. A few days before Christmas, after dropping off the last child, I saw a small figure walking alone in the dark—six years old, backpack too big, clutching a worn stuffed bunny.
“My mom died today,” he said quietly.
He’d run from social services, terrified of strangers. I coaxed him onto the bus, turned up the heater, and stayed with him until he was safely placed. His name was Gabriel. That night, I promised I’d come back.
The next day, he ran into my arms. He reminded me of my twin brother, the one I lost as a child. I couldn’t let Gabriel slip away. By Christmas, I adopted him.
For 13 years, I worked nonstop to give him a stable home. He followed me like a shadow, always careful, always aware. Then one evening, I came home early to find him crying, sitting with a woman holding a folder.
“Dad, I have to go. I love you,” he said.
Gabriel had earned a full scholarship but had been holding back, afraid of leaving me alone. I realized I’d raised a son who could sacrifice himself too easily.
I hugged him tight. “You’re going. That’s not abandonment—it’s living.”
That night, I learned the hardest lesson: love sometimes means letting go.