When I was eight, my mother was hospitalized. One day, my father came home with sad news: “Josh, your mother is gone.” I was devastated. Soon after, he announced we were moving for a “fresh start.” I packed through my tears, and we left town.

Shortly after, a woman named Erika appeared. My father introduced her as a “great friend,” but within months, they married. Erika despised me, constantly yelling and giving me endless chores. My father always took her side. I felt unwanted.

At seventeen, I caught Erika in my room, trying to remove my mother’s portrait. Furious, I grabbed it and ran. I hopped on a bus and, without realizing, ended up in my old hometown. As I wandered the streets, I saw a homeless woman. Her eyes were unmistakable. “Are you Emma Fraser?” I asked.

She gasped. “Josh? My son?” We embraced, both in tears.

She revealed the truth. My father had taken everything, cut off contact, and lied about her death. He secured full custody and vanished with me. She had fought to find me but lost everything in the process.

Determined to make things right, I used my savings to get us a small apartment. My mother rebuilt her career, and I worked while studying at night. To sever ties with my past, I legally changed my last name to “Fraser.” My father had stolen years from us, but he would never take my identity.

Finally, my mother and I had each other again, ready to start anew.