The old fishing boat rocked gently against the dock as Lucas tied the final knot. At 54, his hands, rough and worn from years of hard work, moved swiftly, even though his joints ached with arthritis.
His small house on the village outskirts waited for him, just like it did every night since Maria passed. The silence felt louder now, as if the emptiness inside him echoed through the walls. There was no laughter, no warmth, only the quiet of his own thoughts. “Evening, Lucas!” called Old Tom from his porch. “Catch anything today?”
“Just enough,” Lucas replied, lifting his basket. “The fish aren’t as lonely as we are, eh?”
“You should get a dog, at least,” Tom suggested, as he often did. “That cottage’s got no life in it.”
Lucas gave a soft smile. “Maybe you’re right, Tom. Maybe someday.” He waved and made his way inside. The fire crackled in the fireplace as he sat in his favorite chair, the routine of the day running through his mind. Watering the tomatoes at dawn, feeding the chickens, and walking the quiet streets to his boat.
He stared at Maria’s photo on the mantel, whispering to it, “Should’ve listened when you wanted children. Always said we had time. Now here I am, talking to your picture, hoping for answers.”
But just then, a faint sound broke through the silence—a soft whimper, like a baby crying. Lucas froze. He listened closely, straining to hear it again.
It came. Louder this time. A cry. A desperate cry.
His heart raced. “What in the world?” His old joints protested as he rushed to the door. The porch creaked under his weight, the cold night air biting at his skin as he stepped outside.
Then he saw it.
A woven basket, abandoned on his doorstep. Blankets shifted inside. And then, the cry again.
“Hello?” Lucas called out, his voice shaky. But no one responded. His hands trembled as he knelt down beside the basket. There, in the middle of the cold night, was a tiny baby boy, no older than a few months, reaching up with tiny hands into the chilly air.
“Dear God,” Lucas whispered, his heart pounding as he lifted the child into his arms. The baby looked up at him, wide-eyed, and for a moment, Lucas couldn’t breathe. “Where did you come from, little one?”
The street was empty. No one in sight. Just a note in the basket.
“Don’t look for me. Please take care of him. And love him like your own. Thanks & Goodbye.”
The baby whimpered again, and Lucas’s heart clenched. He had thought that kind of love, that fierce, protective love, had died with Maria. But now… now, it stirred again, deep inside him.
Shushing the baby softly, Lucas cradled him close. “Shh, it’s alright. We’ll take care of you.” He stepped back inside, wrapping the baby in one of Maria’s old quilts. The faded flowers still soft and warm. The baby settled down, his cries fading into coos.
Lucas smiled down at him. “You need a name, little one.” He dipped his wrist into the milk he had warmed, testing its temperature. The baby’s small fingers grabbed onto his thumb, a grip stronger than expected for someone so tiny.
“Look at you,” Lucas chuckled softly. “A fisherman’s grip. Just like your old man.”
The baby gurgled as if he understood. Lucas’s throat tightened with emotion. A name. Maria’s father had always said a child should have a name strong enough to carry them through life. And there it was—Matias.
The name came to him in a soft whisper, as if Maria herself had spoken it. “Matias,” Lucas said softly. “What do you think, little one? You like that name?”
The baby cooed again, a smile spreading across his face.
“Then it’s decided,” Lucas said, his voice breaking. “You’re my son now, Matias. I don’t have much, but everything I have is yours. We’ll figure this out together.”
That night, Lucas built a makeshift crib from an old wooden crate, lining it with blankets. He placed it by his bed, not wanting the baby to be alone for a second. As the moonlight filtered through the window, Lucas watched the baby sleep, his tiny chest rising and falling steadily.
“I promise you,” Lucas whispered, “I’ll be the father you deserve.”
Seventeen years passed, and the house was filled with the sound of Matias’s laughter. The garden flourished with the care of a boy who talked to the chickens every morning, feeding them with a smile.
“Morning, Dad!” Matias called one morning as Lucas walked outside. “Rosa laid two eggs today. She’s your favorite, right?”
Lucas chuckled. “Just like you’re my favorite son.”
“I’m your only son,” Matias laughed, his voice full of energy.
One day, while they worked together in the garden, Matias paused and looked up at Lucas. “Dad… Remember when you told me how you found me?”
Lucas nodded, his hands still on the tomato vines. “Of course.”
“Were you ever sorry? That someone left me here?” Matias asked quietly.
Lucas pulled him close, even with dirt-covered hands. “Matias, you weren’t left here. You were given to me. The greatest gift I ever received.”
Matias’s eyes widened. “Even more than when Mom said yes to marrying you?”
Lucas felt a lump in his throat. “She would have loved you to the moon and back. I see her in you every day, Matias. You have that same gentle touch when you care for these plants.”
Days passed like this—filled with the sound of Matias’s excitement. The boy had grown into a bright, talented young man, and Lucas couldn’t be prouder. One day, Matias burst through the door after school, grinning from ear to ear.
“Dad! Coach says I might make team captain next season!”
Lucas beamed at him. “That’s my boy. Your mother would’ve—”
Matias smiled softly. “Tell me more about her. About how she used to sing while cooking? How she loved the garden?”
“I will, son. But first, these nets won’t mend themselves,” Lucas chuckled, though his voice was thick with emotion.
Then, one day, everything changed. A red Mercedes pulled up to the house, shining too brightly against the humble backdrop of their little home. A tall man in a sharp suit stepped out. His shoes gleamed as he approached, his purpose clear in every step.
When he knocked on the door, Lucas’s heart skipped a beat.
“Can I help you?” Lucas asked, his voice guarded.
“I’m Elijah,” the man said, his tone smooth and controlled. “I need to talk to you about the boy. I’m here to take him.”
Lucas felt a punch to his stomach. “Who are you? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His hand tightened on the doorframe.
“I think you do,” Elijah said, his eyes shifting past Lucas to where Matias had come to stand.
“How do you know my name?” Matias asked, his voice uncertain.
“Because I’m your uncle,” Elijah said, his voice softening. “I’ve been looking for you for 17 years.”
The words hit like a storm. Elijah explained how Matias’s mother, his sister, had left him on the doorstep all those years ago. She had been scared, unable to provide for him, and had hoped Lucas would give him a better life. But now, Matias’s family wanted him back. They had wealth, connections, and opportunities that Lucas couldn’t offer.
Matias turned to Lucas, his eyes filled with conflict. “Dad, I need to know them. To understand where I came from.”
Lucas’s heart shattered as he whispered, “You’ll always be my son, Matias. This is your home. It always will be.”
But Matias needed to go. And so, with a heavy heart, Lucas helped pack a bag. He folded Matias’s favorite sweater carefully, his hands shaking.
“Don’t let the garden die while I’m gone,” Matias said quietly. “Especially Mom’s roses.”
“I won’t, son,” Lucas promised, blinking away the tears.
Matias’s goodbye was quick, too quick for all the love they’d shared. As the red Mercedes drove away, Lucas’s heart felt hollow. But Matias promised to call every day, to come back.
Weeks passed, and the house felt emptier than ever. Matias’s calls grew less frequent, shorter, until they barely felt like conversations.
Then, one evening, there was a knock. Lucas opened the door to find Matias standing there, looking weary, but determined.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Matias said quietly. “The house is too big. Too much… and not enough.”
Lucas felt his heart surge. “Son, what are you—”
“They’re nice,” Matias whispered, “but you’re my father. The only one I need. I can’t be without you.”
The chickens clucked loudly in the background, as if welcoming Matias home. Lucas laughed, wiping away a tear. “Just the chickens, huh?”
Matias smiled, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Just the chickens.”
Lucas pulled his son close, feeling his heart swell with love. “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.”
And as they walked into the house, Matias looked around, his
eyes taking in the familiar surroundings. The garden, the old fishing nets, the quiet warmth that only Lucas could give.
“I’ve missed this,” Matias murmured.
“I’ve missed you too,” Lucas replied. “Let’s make this home again.” And they did. Together.
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