It’s been 27 years since I opened my door and found my month-old nephew on the doorstep. I convinced my husband to keep him and raised him like my own son.

A few days ago, he came to visit from Manhattan (he’s now a successful lawyer). We were having dinner, talking about his career, and as always, I felt proud. But deep down, I knew he only treated me with respect, not love. He never treated me as his mother, and I felt that, but couldn’t blame him.

Then came a knock at the door. To my shock, it was my brother, who I hadn’t seen in 27 years. My nephew recognized him from old photos.

“SON, I HAD NO CHOICE! IF I HADN’T LEFT YOU, YOU WOULD’VE DIED. AND IT’S ALL HER FAULT!” my brother said, pointing at me.

My heart pounded. I hadn’t heard his voice in so long, and now here he was, standing in my doorway, blaming me for his own decision.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice shaking.

My nephew—no, my son—stared at the man who had abandoned him. He looked calm, but I could see the questions swirling in his mind.

My brother took a step closer. “You don’t get to act innocent! You forced me to leave him! You knew I had no money, no way to feed him. You turned your back on me!”

I shook my head, my throat tight with anger and disbelief. “That’s not true. I told you I could help. I told you to stay. But you ran, and when you couldn’t handle it anymore, you left him on my doorstep!”

Tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “You were the one who disappeared, who never called, never checked if he was okay. I was the one who raised him. I was the one who stayed.”

My nephew’s voice was steady but cold. “Why are you here now? What do you want?”

My brother hesitated. His eyes darted between me and his son. “I wanted to see you. To explain. I never wanted to leave you, but I had no choice. I was drowning in debt, and I was scared. I thought she would take better care of you. I thought she could do what I couldn’t.”

My nephew folded his arms. “So you left me and never came back? You let me grow up thinking I wasn’t wanted? And now, after 27 years, you suddenly want to explain?”

My brother flinched at his words. “I was a coward. I know that. But you have to understand—I thought I was doing the right thing.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “The right thing would have been staying. Fighting for him. Being his father. But instead, you left and let me take the blame for all of it.”

Silence filled the room. My nephew looked at me, then back at my brother. “I don’t know what you expect from me. Do you want me to forgive you? To welcome you with open arms? Because I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

My brother swallowed hard. “I just wanted you to know my side of the story. I don’t expect anything. But if there’s a chance—just a small chance—that one day, we can talk again, I’ll wait.”

My nephew didn’t respond right away. Finally, he said, “I need time. A lot of it.”

My brother nodded, his face full of regret. He looked at me one last time but said nothing more. Then he turned and walked out the door.

As I closed it behind him, my nephew turned to me. “I don’t know how to feel. I thought I’d be angrier, but mostly, I just feel… empty.”

I reached for his hand, but he didn’t take it. “You don’t have to decide anything today. Or tomorrow. But just know, no matter what, you were always loved.”

For the first time that night, his eyes softened. “I know. And I’m grateful for that.”

But as he looked back at the door, I wondered: Would he ever forgive his father?