I found diapers in my 15-year-old son's backpack and decided to follow him after school.

My heart was pounding.

I approached one of the windows, breathless. And what I saw… took my breath away.

Inside, in a small, cozy room, my son was leaning over a baby.
He was lifting him with impressive delicacy, placing him on a makeshift changing table, and changing his diaper with disarming calm and confidence.

I stood there frozen for a few seconds. Who was this child? Was it hers? A friend's?
But my instincts told me otherwise: it wasn't panic I saw on her face, but tenderness, care, and responsibility.

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

A young girl, no older than him, opened the door. She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, but also a glimmer of surprise—and fear—when she saw me.

Behind her, my son froze, his gaze suddenly worried.

“Mom… please… I can explain,” he whispered.

The three of us sat in the small living room while the baby gurgled in his crib.

He told me everything.

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