“Seven dollars is exactly what it costs,” I lied, my voice cracking slightly. I gathered up the cans and bottles and set them aside. “You paid in full. Let’s get you to the back so I can take a look at that leg, okay?”

He gave a slow, relieved nod. I walked around the counter, wrapped my oversized cardigan around his small, trembling shoulders, and gently guided him down the hall to Exam Room Three. I helped him up onto the examination table, the protective paper crinkling loudly in the quiet room. Up close, he smelled of wet asphalt, old rain, and exhaustion.

“I’m going to get a warm towel to clean up your face and hands first,” I told him. “Then we’ll check out the leg. Sound good?”

I walked over to the supply closet and pulled a fresh towel from the warming rack, soaking it in warm water from the sink. When I turned back to him, he was looking at the medical posters on the wall, completely quiet. I stepped between his knees and began to gently wipe the freezing rain, mud, and street grime away from his forehead and cheeks.

As the dirt washed away, revealing his pale skin, my hands started to slow down.

A strange, suffocating feeling began to bloom in the center of my chest. The shape of his jawline. The slope of his nose. The striking, familiar hazel color of his eyes looking back at me. My breathing hitched. I reached out, my fingers trembling uncontrollably, and gently brushed his wet hair back from his left ear.

There it was. A small, perfectly crescent-shaped birthmark.

The damp towel slipped from my hands and hit the linoleum floor with a wet slap. The room suddenly felt like it was spinning violently off its axis.

My ears were ringing. I staggered back a step, grabbing the edge of the counter to keep from collapsing.

This wasn’t just a random homeless child.

This was Leo.

This was my son.

Five years ago, my life had been completely torn apart. My ex-husband, Richard, came from one of the wealthiest, most deeply connected families in the state. When our marriage dissolved, he didn’t just want a divorce—he wanted to completely erase me. His family’s high-priced legal team painted a brutal, fabricated picture of me in court. They used my grueling hours at the clinic against me, portraying me as an absent, financially unstable mother who couldn’t provide the life an heir to their empire deserved.