You were an orphan. You had no parents and no siblings. The only family you had was your husband. He was your whole world.

He loved you deeply. He always said you were his miracle. You lived a simple but happy life together. When you gave birth to a baby boy, he cried while holding the baby.

“He looks just like you,” he said with a smile. “He is perfect.”

One morning, your husband acted strange. He kept kissing your forehead and your cheeks.

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said.

You laughed softly. “Why are you being so dramatic today?”

He held your hands. “I am just very grateful. Thank you for being my wife. Thank you for giving me such a cute baby boy.”

You smiled. “You are overreacting.”

He hugged you tightly before leaving for work. “I love you,” he said again.

That evening, your phone rang.

“Is this Mrs. Harper?” a voice asked.

“Yes,” you answered.

“I am calling from the hospital,” the voice said gently.

“Your husband was involved in a car accident.”

Your heart dropped. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

There was silence before the answer came. “I am sorry. We did everything we could.”

Your phone slipped from your hand.

Later that night, someone knocked on your door. There was a bouquet of fresh roses and a small teddy bear. A note was attached.

For my wife and my son. I love you both.

You fell to the floor and cried until you could not breathe. Losing him meant losing your whole world.

One month later, your baby started breathing with difficulty. His chest moved fast, his lips turned pale, and his small hands shook. You rushed him to the hospital.

The doctor said he had congenital heart failure. He needed surgery, and the cost was high. You swallowed hard, refusing to let yourself break down in front of him. You had to work. You had no choice.

You took two jobs. In the morning, you cleaned offices in a Clarke's building. At night, you cleaned floors at a club. You left your baby alone in the hospital, lying on the bed with tubes attached to his tiny body, the air tube helping him breathe, wires connected to the monitor.

Every time you left, you whispered, “Mama will be back. Please wait for me.”

He waited. Patient. Silent. Playing with his hands. Opening and closing his fingers slowly. Looking at the door every time it opened.

Nathaniel Clarke was the CEO of the building where you worked. You had never liked him. He was strict, cold, and seemed to enjoy making your life difficult. Nathaniel Clarke had just finished visiting his sister who had given birth. He was walking down the hallway when he saw the baby through the glass door.

He stopped.

The baby was sitting alone on the bed. He did not cry. He did not move much. He just kept playing with his hands, patient and quiet, looking toward the door as if expecting someone.

Nathaniel stayed standing there.

Minutes passed. The baby’s fingers slowed. His eyelids drooped. He leaned slightly to the side. Then, quietly, he fell asleep.

Nathaniel remained frozen, staring at the baby. His chest tightened in a way he could not explain. He had never felt so small and helpless watching someone so tiny wait for someone who might never come.

Then he heard footsteps running down the hallway.

You froze when you saw him standing there.

“Is he your baby?” Nathaniel asked quietly.

“Yes… he is,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped a little closer, his eyes still on the baby.

“He’s such a good baby,” he said softly. “He patiently waits for you to come back… without crying.”

Your tears fell instantly.

You could not stop them. You stepped into the room. You bent down, picking your baby up carefully. Tubes and wires in place, small chest rising and falling slowly.

“I’m here, my love,” you whispered, hugging him tightly. “Mama is back.”