I found the article at the library.
There it was—his face as a toddler, printed under a headline that used the word “cursed” like it belonged to him.
A woman named Margaret had blamed him for everything—loss, tragedy, misfortune. And the world had listened.
Not questioned. Not protected.
Just believed.
When I found her, she didn’t deny it.
“He brought bad luck,” she said coldly.
No grief. No doubt. Just certainty.
Her son and daughter-in-law had died in an accident. And instead of facing that pain, she gave it to a child.
“You didn’t lose your family because of him,” I told her. “You handed your grief to someone who couldn’t fight back.”
She said nothing.
She didn’t have to.
The damage had already been done.
When I got home, the house was too quiet.
And then I saw the note.
“Mom… I think it’s better if I leave.”
No.
Not this.
Not him.
I searched everywhere until I found him at the train station.
Sitting alone. Waiting.
Like he had already accepted leaving.
“Mom?” he said when he saw me, surprised—like he hadn’t expected me to come.
I held his face in my hands.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“I didn’t want to ruin your life,” he said.
That was the moment everything became clear.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Just a boy who had believed he was something bad.
