The house was decorated with balloons, streamers, and fairy lights for my adopted son’s tenth birthday. I had planned everything for weeks. But when he sat before his cake, he didn’t smile. His shoulders trembled, and tears slipped down his cheeks as he whispered, “My birthday was yesterday.”
Confused, I reminded him the papers listed today as his birthday. He shook his head. “They made a mistake. Today is my brother’s birthday.”
My breath caught. “Your brother?”
He brought out a small wooden box filled with old notes, drawings, and a photo of two blond boys—him and another child. “They said I was alone,” he whispered. “But I had him.”
That night, my husband and I searched through his documents. Nothing made sense. When the agency avoided my calls, I tracked down an old social worker. She finally admitted the truth: the brothers had been separated due to pressure in the system. Records were sealed. His brother was adopted in another state.
I sat on my son’s bed and promised, “We’re going to find him.” For the first time in days, hope lit his eyes.
Months of searching led us to a boy whose birthday matched the date my son remembered. Their reunion was instant—tears, hugs, relief.
This year, two boys sat at our table, two sets of candles glowing side by side.
He wasn’t alone anymore. Neither of them was.
