The old fishing boat rocked gently against the dock, its worn wooden hull creaking as the tide whispered against it. Lucas, now 54, had spent a lifetime working the waters of this small coastal village, his hands hardened by years of labor.
He tied the final knot, his fingers stiff with age and the ache of arthritis, but he did it with the practiced skill of someone who had lived this life for decades.
His house sat on the outskirts of the village, a place that had once been filled with warmth and laughter. But since Maria had passed away, it was empty now. No children’s voices, no soft greetings, just the echo of his own footsteps as he returned to the quiet home.
The only companion he had was his grief — and the constant memories of a love he had lost.
“Evening, Lucas!” Old Tom called from his porch, waving with a toothy grin. “Catch much today?”
“Just enough,” Lucas replied, lifting his basket with a small smile. “The fish aren’t as lonely as we are, eh?”
“You ought to get yourself a dog at least,” Tom suggested, squinting against the fading light. “That cottage’s too quiet. Needs a little life.”
Lucas chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, Tom.”
As he stepped into his home, the warmth of the fire filled the room, but it was only the warmth of the flames, not of life. He settled into his chair, the familiar creaks of the wooden floor underfoot sounding like memories, reminding him of his days with Maria.
The day’s routine ran through his mind — the early morning tending to his garden, the quiet walk to the boat, the rhythmic cast of the nets.
He glanced over at the photo of Maria that sat on the mantel. Her warm smile still seemed to light up the room, even now. “Should’ve listened when you wanted kids,” he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. “Always thought we had time.”
Then, something unusual broke his quiet thoughts. A soft cry, distant but unmistakable. It was a faint sound, like a whimper, carried by the cold winter wind. He froze, listening intently.
There it was again — clearer this time, more urgent.
Lucas rose slowly, wincing as his joints complained, and shuffled to the door. The old porch boards creaked beneath his boots as he stepped outside. The night was cold, the air sharp and biting, and for a moment, he could only stand in the doorway, listening.
Another cry — and then he saw it: a woven basket resting on his doorstep. His heart skipped as he approached, the blankets inside shifting ever so slightly.
His breath caught in his throat when he saw the tiny hand — small fingers reaching up, grasping at the cold night air.
“Dear God,” Lucas whispered as he knelt beside the basket. He gathered the tiny bundle into his arms. A baby. A boy, no older than a few months, with wide, curious eyes that stared up at him with a look of trust and uncertainty.
“Where did you come from, little one?” Lucas muttered, scanning the empty street. No one was in sight. There was only a small note tucked beneath the blankets, written in hurried script:
“Don’t look for me. Please take care of him. And love him like your own. Thanks & Goodbye.”
The baby let out a soft whimper, his eyes locking onto Lucas’s with an unspoken need. Lucas felt a stir of something deep in his chest — something he thought had died with Maria. Something like hope.
Shushing the child, Lucas cradled him against his chest. “It’s alright, little one,” he whispered, gently rocking back and forth. “We’ll get you warm.” He looked up at the dark sky, feeling the weight of Maria’s memory in the air.
“Maria,” he whispered softly to the wind. “This must be a sign. You always said miracles come when we least expect them.”
Inside, Lucas wrapped the baby in one of Maria’s old quilts, still soft despite the years. The child’s cries began to quiet, and Lucas heated some milk, his mind drifting to the days when Tom’s daughter would feed her own children.
“You need a name, little one,” Lucas murmured, testing the milk on his wrist. The baby’s tiny fingers curled around his thumb, holding on with surprising strength.
“You’ve got a good grip there, like a fisherman,” Lucas said with a smile, the warmth of the moment swelling inside him. “Matias,” he whispered softly. It was the name of Maria’s father, a strong name. A good name.
The baby smiled, a gentle, toothless grin that melted Lucas’s heart.
“Well, it’s decided then,” Lucas said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ll be my son. Matias.” He paused for a moment, wiping a tear from his cheek. “I may not have much, but everything I have is yours. We’ll figure this out together.”
That night, Lucas made a crib from an old wooden crate, lining it with soft blankets and placing it next to his bed. He couldn’t bear the thought of the child being alone in another room. As moonlight filtered through the window, he watched the baby’s chest rise and fall with steady breaths.
“I promise you, I’ll be the father you deserve,” he whispered, touching the baby’s soft cheek.
Seventeen years passed like the seasons. The garden grew fuller, nourished by the sound of Matias’s laughter. Every morning, Lucas would wake to find Matias already in the garden, feeding the chickens and chatting to them as if they understood.
“Morning, Dad!” Matias would call out cheerfully. “Rosa laid two eggs today. She’s your favorite, isn’t she?”
“Just like you’re my favorite son,” Lucas would reply with a wink.
“I’m your only son,” Matias would laugh, making Lucas’s heart swell with pride.
One morning, as they worked side by side in the garden, Matias paused and looked up at his father. “Dad? Remember when you told me about finding me?”
Lucas’s hands stilled on the tomato vines. “Of course I remember.”
“Were you ever sorry?” Matias asked, his voice quiet. “That someone left me here, alone?”
Lucas pulled him close, brushing the soil from his son’s shirt. “Matias,” he said, his voice firm but gentle, “you were never left here. You were given to me. The greatest gift I ever received.”
“Even greater than when Mom said yes to marrying you?” Matias asked, his voice muffled against Lucas’s shirt.
“She would’ve loved you with all her heart,” Lucas said, his throat tight with emotion. “Sometimes, when I see the way you care for these plants, I see her in you. She had that same gentle touch.”
Matias smiled up at him. “I wish I could’ve known her.”
“You would have adored her,” Lucas replied, a wistful smile crossing his face.
Days were filled with the familiar routine, but one afternoon, as Matias returned home from school, there was something different. His face was lit with excitement.
“Dad! Coach says I might make team captain next season!” he called, bursting through the door with a wide grin.
“That’s my boy,” Lucas said, pride radiating from every word. “Your mom would have—” he stopped himself, his heart tightening.
Matias grinned, eyes sparkling. “Tell me about her again, Dad? About how she used to garden? How she’d sing while cooking?”
Lucas smiled gently, shaking his head. “Another time, son. These nets won’t mend themselves.”
“You always say that,” Matias teased, grabbing an apple from the bowl. “One day you’ll run out of nets to mend, and then you’ll have to tell me everything.”
Lucas chuckled, his heart lightened by the sound of Matias’s voice.
Suddenly, the screech of tires outside interrupted their easy conversation. A red Mercedes, sleek and out of place in their humble neighborhood, pulled up. A tall man in an expensive suit stepped out, his shoes polished to perfection.
The knock at the door came, sharp and determined.
“Can I help you?” Lucas asked, his voice cautious as he opened the door a crack.
“Mr. Lucas?” The man’s voice was cultured, his gaze sharp. “I’m Elijah. We need to talk about the boy. I’m here to take him.”
Lucas’s heart sank. “Who on earth are you?” he demanded, confusion and fear rising. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” Elijah said, his eyes slipping past Lucas’s shoulder. “Hello, Matias.”
Matias stepped forward, wary but curious. “How do you know my name?”
“Because I’m your uncle, and I’ve been looking for you for 17 years,” Elijah said, his voice softening as he turned to Lucas. “May I come in? This conversation isn’t one for doorways.”
Lucas’s mind reeled, but he stepped aside, allowing the man into the house. In the living room, Matias sat beside Lucas, their shoulders touching as they faced the stranger.
Elijah told them the story — how Matias’s mother, his sister, had disappeared years ago. How, on her deathbed, she had confessed everything. She had been young and scared, running away from her own troubled past, hoping that Matias could have a better life.
“She left
him with you, because she knew you would give him a better future,” Elijah finished, his gaze softening as he looked at Matias.
Matias, still reeling from the revelation, looked up at Lucas. “Dad, I’m…” he started, voice trembling.
“No matter what anyone says,” Lucas said firmly, “you’re my son. Always have been. Always will be.”
Tears welled in Matias’s eyes as he nodded. “I know. And you’re the only father I need.” What do you think of the story? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
