Not lost.
Taken.
When I turned to him, I didn’t try to convince him with emotion.
I gave him memories.
Small things.
Details only a mother would know.
The way he used to tap my locket for luck.
The nickname he called me when he was upset.
The fears he carried as a child.
And I saw it.
Recognition.
Not full.
Not certain.
But enough.
He told me he had always dreamed of a voice calling him, a feeling that something was missing, something he couldn’t explain.
And in that moment, I knew.
He hadn’t forgotten.
Not completely.
What came next wasn’t anger.
Not first.
It was grief.
For everything that had been taken.
For every year I had spent believing he was gone.
For every moment he had lived without knowing who he truly was.
