My first memories weren’t of lullabies or cuddles, but of hunger and fear. My parents, Margaret and Rafe, were wealthy, free-spirited hippies—who didn’t believe in parenting. When I was three, they dumped me at an orphanage to chase enlightenment in India. All they left behind was my birth certificate and a trust fund I couldn’t use for 15 years.

The nuns raised me with love—something my parents never gave. I became an engineer, built bridges, married Susan, and raised two wonderful kids. But I never stopped asking: How could they leave me?

Decades later, I got a call. My parents were old, broke, and living in a nursing home. “They’ll be homeless soon,” the lawyer said. My gut screamed, Let them rot. But Susan said, “You’re a good man. Do the right thing.”

I visited them. Margaret cried fake tears. Rafe tried small talk. I didn’t flinch. “You left me,” I told them. “But I won’t do the same. Not because you deserve it—but because I do.”

I brought them home. I hired a carer. I watched them age with grace, surrounded by grandchildren they never thought they’d meet.

In the end, I gave them love—because I knew what it felt like to grow up without it.