I became a mother at seventeen—and my parents took my baby from me. Now, twenty-one years later, the man living next door looks exactly like the child I lost.

“This won’t last forever.”
“It’s for your own good.”
“You’ll understand one day.”

After hours of pain, fear, and exhaustion, I finally heard my baby cry.

Just once.

A soft, fragile sound—but enough to tell me he was alive.

I tried to lift myself up. I begged them to let me see him.