When I finally saw Noah, he was sitting in a child advocacy center wearing sweatpants that were too short for him and a dark green T-shirt someone had provided.
His hair was longer.
His face looked thinner.
But he was Noah.
My Noah.
He saw me.
For half a second, neither of us moved.
Then:
“Mom?”
I ran to him.
He ran too.
I dropped to my knees.
He hit me so hard with the hug that I almost fell backward.
I buried my face in his hair.
“You’re here.”
He started crying.
“I thought you didn’t want me.”
Everything inside me shattered.
“What?”
“Dad said—”
“No.”
I pulled back enough to look at him.
“Noah, listen to me.”
His face was wet.
“I never stopped wanting you.”
“But Oregon.”
“What Oregon?”
He stared.
“Dad said you were moving.”
“I never planned to move to Oregon.”
His face changed.
“He said you were going to take me and not tell him.”
