Renzo finally opened up.
He told his half-brother everything—how their mom abandoned him, how he blamed himself, how he’d spent years wondering what was wrong with him. “I thought I just wasn’t enough,” he said.
“You were,” I said. “She wasn’t ready.
That’s not your fault.”
The boy leaned in.
“She wasn’t ready for me either.”
We all laughed. Then we cried. Since then, Renzo’s been different.
Lighter.
More open. He’s started community college.
Works at a bookstore. Still lives with me, but he’s saving for his own place now.
Last week, he came home with a small cake.
“Happy Home Anniversary,” he said. I asked him what he meant. “It’s been one year since you gave me the condo.
I just… I’m grateful.
Even if everything went to hell for a while.”
I hugged him and didn’t let go. Sometimes, the people who share your blood will try to cut you with it.
But love isn’t in DNA—it’s in the day-to-day. The rides, the meals, the late-night talks, the quiet loyalty.
Daritza hasn’t reached out since.
I don’t know if she ever will. But I know this: I may have lost a daughter, but I never lost my family. And neither did Renzo.
If you’ve ever had to choose between peace and people who only bring chaos—choose peace.
Always. Thanks for reading.
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