My mother was having an affair with a married man—and I was the child who came from it.
As far back as I can remember, we never had a stable home. We drifted from one rented place to another, always moving, never settling.
When I was five, my mother met yet another man and decided she wanted a life with him. But he set one condition: he would take her only if she came alone.
And she agreed without blinking. She traded her own son for that man.
She drove me to my father’s apartment, pressed all the necessary documents into my hands, rang the doorbell, heard the lock click… and ran. I was left standing there by myself.
My father opened the door and froze when he saw me. He understood instantly who I was. He brought me inside.
His wife accepted me kindly—so did their children, a daughter and a son. At first my father wanted to send me to an orphanage, but his wife wouldn’t let him. She said none of this was my fault.
She was truly a saint.
In the beginning I waited for my biological mother, convinced she would come back for me any day. Then I stopped waiting—and I started calling my father’s wife “Mom.”
My biological father didn’t have warm feelings for any of his children, let alone me. He saw me as an extra mouth to feed, yet he still provided for me the same way he provided for the rest of the household.
He was a despot, the kind of man whose presence made the whole house tense. When he came home, all of us would lock ourselves in the kids’ room and try not to be seen. His wife couldn’t leave him—out of spite he would never have allowed her to take the children. So for years she endured his affairs and his angry outbursts.
She learned how to avoid him, and when she had to, how to defuse his rage. She shielded us from screaming and scandals. The house ran on silence and routine: we knew the schedule and tried not to trigger him.
The one thing was—we never lacked necessities. And Mom gave us enough love and tenderness for two parents.
When he finally left for yet another young mistress, we all exhaled in relief. By then we were nearly grown. My brother and sister were finishing school, and by a strange coincidence we were the same age, so I was preparing for graduation exams right along with them.
Three seniors in one home.
We helped one another study, pulling each other up in different subjects. Each of us dreamed of getting into a top university. Our father wasn’t affectionate, but he promised he’d pay for our education—and he kept his word.
We got in. We finished. We earned the professions we’d once only dreamed about.
Then our father died.
He left behind a substantial inheritance. His last girlfriend got nothing—she simply didn’t manage to marry him in time. And the three of us became the rightful owners of his company and his bank accounts.
We continued building the business. Eventually the moment came when we needed to go abroad and open a new branch. We decided I would run it.
I suggested taking our mother with us—the woman who had raised us. No one deserved a warm country and peace more than she did. My brother and sister agreed immediately.
And then the day came for us to leave.
That’s when my biological mother suddenly appeared.
I recognized her instantly—my childhood had etched her face into my memory.
She decided to “remember” me as soon as she heard I was moving away.
“My son,” she said, laying it on thick, “I’m your real mother! Have you forgotten me? You’ve grown so much. I missed you so badly, I worried about you every day. Let’s finally live together again!”
I was stunned by her audacity.
“Of course I remember you,” I told her. “I remember you running away from that door after dumping me there—when I was still a little kid. And you’re not my mother. My mom is leaving with me. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
I turned around and walked away.
And I don’t regret it for a second.
My mother is the woman who wasn’t afraid to take in her husband’s child with another woman—who raised me with love and gentleness. She stayed up with me when I was sick. She was there when my heart got broken for the first time. She comforted me after fights with friends, taught me, forgave my mischief and stupidity, endured my teenage moods, and never once reminded me that I wasn’t her “real” son.
To her, I became a son.
To me, she became my mother.
I don’t have another.
We moved with her to a different country. There I met the woman who would become my wife. My mother liked her, and they built a warm relationship. My mother never stood in the way of my personal life—if anything, she was brave enough to build a life of her own too. She met a kind man, and I was genuinely happy for her.
She earned her happiness.
Now she travels often, visits her children and grandchildren, and when I look into her bright, joyful eyes, I know one thing for sure: I’m grateful she’s in my life.
She’s my guardian angel.