The Son Who Was Rejected Twice

The paper in my hand was worn thin, the ink fading from being folded and unfolded too many times.
Calle Magnolia 847, Apartment 3B.

My heart thudded as I climbed the narrow staircase of the old brick building. Twenty-five years — that’s how long I’d waited for this moment. Twenty-five years imagining her face, inventing noble reasons for her absence.
She must have been too young, I used to tell myself. She had no choice. She probably thought about me every single day.

When I finally reached the door, my hands were trembling so hard that I nearly dropped the paper. I pressed the doorbell once. Twice.

And then — she appeared.

The same green eyes that looked back at me every morning in the mirror. The same nose, the same curve of the lips. I had her hands too — except hers were tighter, colder.

“Yes?” she asked, polite but distant, like I was a stranger selling something.

“Hi,” I started, my voice breaking. “My name is Daniel… Daniel Cortés. But when I was born, my name was Mateo Ramírez.”

Her expression froze. For a moment, time seemed to stop between us.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said flatly, but her eyes betrayed her.

“I’m your son,” I whispered. “I was born March 15th, 1999. At the General Hospital. You… you gave me up when I was three days old.”

The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear the faint hum of a refrigerator, the distant barking of a dog outside. And my own heartbeat — wild, desperate.

Finally, she spoke.
“Listen, kid,” she said, her tone sharp and tired. “I don’t know what you want, but that part of my life is over. I made a decision twenty-five years ago, and I’m not going back.”

“I don’t want anything,” I lied. Because what I wanted was everything — her story, her hug, her love, even just five minutes of honesty.
“I just need to understand why.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” she said, pressing the door closer to shut. “You were a mistake. I was seventeen, broke, and alone. Your father ran away. I did what I had to do.”

A mistake.
The word hit me harder than any slap could have.

“But now,” I tried again, “you have a family. I saw online you have two daughters, a husband—”

Her face changed instantly — from indifference to panic, then to fury.
“You looked me up? Who do you think you are?” Her voice rose. “My daughters don’t know about you. My husband doesn’t know about you. And they never will. Do you understand me? I’m not your mother. Your parents are the people who raised you. I was just a womb that carried you.”

Every word carved itself into me like a blade.
And worst of all — there was no regret in her eyes. Not sorrow. Just annoyance, as if I were an inconvenient reminder of something she wanted to forget.

“Please,” I whispered. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Leave,” she said coldly. “And don’t come back. If you do, I’ll call the police. If you contact my daughters, I’ll call the police. For you, I don’t exist. Is that clear?”

The door slammed.
And with that sound, a lifetime of questions crashed into silence.

I stood there in the hallway, staring at the number 3B through blurred tears, until the numbers became nothing but shapes. Then I stumbled down the stairs and sat on the bus stop outside.

The wind smelled like rain and disinfectant — and loss.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the one number that always answered.

“Hi, sweetheart! Done with your meeting?” my mom’s voice came through — warm, familiar, safe.

“Yeah, Mom,” I said, forcing a laugh. “Just wanted to say… I love you.”

There was a pause. She always knew when I wasn’t telling the truth.
“Are you okay, honey? You sound… off.”

“I’m fine,” I lied again. “Just needed to hear your voice.”

“Come home for dinner. Your dad’s making lasagna. And Daniel…”
Her voice softened.
“Whatever’s going on, just remember — we’re your family. Always.”

I smiled through the tears.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be there soon.”

When the bus finally arrived, I looked up one last time at the red-brick building. A shadow moved behind the curtain of Apartment 3B. Then it was gone.

She had rejected me twice — once when I was born, and once when I finally found her.

But as the bus pulled away from Magnolia Street, something inside me shifted.
Maybe she wasn’t who I was looking for after all. Maybe family isn’t the blood that leaves you, but the hands that choose to stay.

I pressed my forehead against the window and watched the city fade behind me.
For the first time, I didn’t feel abandoned — I felt free.

Some questions in life never get answered.
And sometimes… that’s perfectly okay.