I raised my best friend’s son after her death, loved him as my own for twelve years.

Oliver never believed he was meant to belong anywhere. His earliest memories were of long hallways, institutional walls, and the constant shuffle of children coming and going from the group home where he grew up. Adults rotated through shifts. Rules changed. Promises were made and forgotten. Love, when it appeared, was temporary. The only thing that stayed was uncertainty. But in that unstable world, there was one person who became his anchor—Nora. She slept in the bed beside his, shared her snacks when he was hungry, and whispered dreams of a future where they would someday have real homes, real families, and real choices. They promised each other that no matter what happened, they would never abandon one another.

That promise carried them through adolescence, heartbreak, and fear. When they aged out of the system at eighteen, standing on the sidewalk with nothing but cheap duffel bags and nervous smiles, they clung to that vow. Life separated them physically, but emotionally they remained inseparable. When Nora became pregnant, frightened and alone, Oliver was the first person she called. He stood beside her through sleepless nights and uncertain days, through labor and tears, through the birth of little Leo.

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