At 18, my parents forced me to give up my newborn son

Thirty-one years of searching, wondering, crying, and imagining what my little boy might look like.

And now a man who had just saved my life was telling me he might be that little boy.

“Daniel,” I whispered, “my baby’s name was Fabian.”

He looked at me.

For the first time since entering my room, his professional expression disappeared.

“My adoptive parents named me Daniel.”

I reached for his hand.

“Do you know why?”

He shook his head.

“Not yet.”