He walked into my room. Stood before me. And dragged me up from the bed. I wasn’t expecting it from him. I wanted to give him a slap but held myself. He doesn’t know the truth yet.
“What are you doing?” I asked with all seriousness.
He scanned me through with an expression of pleasure.
“Do you know how many months, weeks, days it took me to tell you I love you?” he asked me, tears already clouding his eyes.
“I love you too, but you have to understand that this type of love is not right. It is not possible. And not acceptable,” I said to him.
“But why? I can’t love a cook? he asked.
I looked down. Words eluded me. If only he would understand. If only he knew I’m his mother. Twenty-three ago, I had given birth to him, but he was taken away from me by my family to a foster home. I was only thirteen. I had no sense of parenting then.
I tracked and found him. Applied as a cook to the family he was taken to. I just wanted to be close to him. Get to know to him. I never knew he would fall in love with me.
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