After my wife d!ed, I made the cruelest decision of my life: I threw her son—who wasn’t my blood—out of the house. Ten years later, a truth surfaced that shattered me to the core. I still remember the moment I tossed his worn-out bag onto the floor and stared at the 12-year-old boy with cold, empty eyes. “Get out. You’re not my son. Your mother is gone—I have no reason to keep you here. Go wherever you want.” He didn’t cry. He didn’t plead. He simply lowered his head, picked up the bag with its