Seven years after my 9-year-old son Zavi died in the hospital, a nurse revealed he was alive, taken in a mix-up by a woman posing as his aunt. The grief had consumed me—sleepless nights, avoiding places we loved, like the park where I once saw a boy who looked just like him. I thought it was my mind playing tricks.
Ms. Aniska, a nurse from Zavi’s ward, tracked me down. She explained a boy with similar features died, and Zavi was taken by Glenda Torro, a former nurse tech. Glenda renamed him Rayan, moved states, and raised him as her own. Authorities found them; Glenda was in custody.
Meeting Zavi—now taller, leaner, but with the same warm brown eyes—was surreal. He remembered a lullaby I sang him. Rebuilding took time. He was confused, torn by Glenda’s lies that I’d abandoned him. We started with visits, then weekends, bonding over chess and his love for coding. Eventually, he moved in.
Now 19, Zavi studies computer engineering, driven to fix hospital record systems. Glenda’s in prison; I haven’t forgiven her. Sometimes, I wonder if I saw him in that park years ago. Love, somehow, brought us back together. I lost seven years, but I have him now.
