My Parents Put Me Up For Adoption Because I Was A Boy. My Mom Said: “i Wish You’d Died As A Baby” 19

Later I learned Dev guessed, but at the time it felt like someone finally saw me. Reena was warm immediately, practical, and blunt in a good way.

She looked at my hair clips and lunchbox and said nothing. She just started gathering items for donations.

Then she took me to a thrift store and let me pick out my own clothes. Plain, normal boy clothes.

When we got back, she helped me cut the clips out of my hair.

“Fresh start,”

she said.

No lecture, just freedom. Dev was quieter but kind.

He showed me around the kiosk and explained how things worked. They were grinding 14-hour days, but they made space for me without complaint.

That first week, Dev closed early three days in a row just to help me settle in. Reena said he’d never closed early in eight years.

The guardianship stayed informal for two years. Then a school administrator started asking about my enrollment paperwork.

Dev spent three weekends tracking down Ferris getting signatures for temporary guardianship. The process cost $400 in filing fees they didn’t have.,

Reena worked extra shifts to cover it. I found the receipts years later, saw the dates, and saw the sacrifice.

For months I waited for the trap. I expected Reena and Dev to turn mean.

Trauma wires you for betrayal, but they stayed consistent. They fed me, talked to me, and treated me like I mattered.

It took almost a year before I believed it. The moment was small.

I broke a plate washing dishes. It shattered everywhere.

I froze, waiting for punishment. Dev just handed me a broom.

“Accidents happen,”

he said.

That was it. No yelling, no locked rooms, no skipped meals.

Just a broom and a calm voice. I cried that night for the first time since leaving Ferris and Salma.

I got back into school that fall. The mid-session transfer was rough, but there were no more Nor nicknames or playground ambushes.

Just quiet days learning to be normal. I started helping at the kiosk around age eight.

I organized supplies, cleaned the tea window, and ran change. By 10, I was handling alterations pickup and basic bookkeeping.

Turned out I had a head for numbers and systems. Reena quizzed me constantly on margins and costs.,

I always got it right. Dev taught me how to negotiate, read people, and spot good fabric from bad.

He said it would matter more than any degree. High school was where things clicked.

Business classes, accounting, and basic economics. Teachers pushed college.

I was thinking bigger. I wasn’t climbing someone else’s ladder; I was building something of my own.

After graduation, I told Reena and Dev I’d run the kiosk full-time and let them rest. They shut that down instantly.

They said I was going to college. It was non-negotiable.

They’d been saving for years. They lived like monks with no vacations and no unnecessary purchases.

Dev had been doing side repair jobs for a decade. I argued and said they’d already given me everything.

Reena gave me that fierce look and said they were giving me one more thing whether I liked it or not: a future without limits.

So I went. I studied business and systems.

Every break and weekend I worked at the kiosk. I was learning what classrooms couldn’t teach.

Graduation day they were front row, dressed sharp and beaming. They’d invited Ferris and Salma, but neither showed.,

It stung, but Reena and Dev filled the space. Reena cried during the ceremony.

Dev’s hand shook when he took photos. They were proud, truly proud.

After college they handed me everything they’d saved: $17,000. I tried to refuse.

Dev refused my refusal. So I took it and made a vow that every dollar would count.

I started with phone repair. A small kiosk, high traffic area, and low overhead.

I fixed screens and replaced batteries. Long hours and tight margins.

Every mistake hurt. Then my first real crisis hit.

A supplier sent a batch of defective screens, 40 units. I’d sold 15 before customers returned with issues.

I had to refund everyone and eat the cost. It nearly wiped me out.

I spent three nights staring at spreadsheets and numbers refusing to balance. Dev found me at 2:00 in the morning with a calculator next to cold coffee.

“You going to quit?”

he asked.

“Thinking about it.”

“Don’t.”

That was it; just don’t. And I didn’t.

I stayed up three more hours and mapped a path through. I contacted the supplier and documented everything.,

I threatened small claims and got half refunded. It was not perfect, but enough.

I rebuilt trust one repair at a time. If a phone wasn’t worth fixing, I told the customer straight.

They remembered that. Within 18 months, I’d paid back Reena and Dev and opened a second location.

I hired my first employee, a kid from the community college. He was a quick learner and good with customers.

I paid him fair and trained him right. He’s still with me now as a manager.

Then I pivoted into wholesale accessories. Cases, chargers, and bulk purchasing.

Thin margins, high velocity. By 24, I had two shops and a growing wholesale line.

Nothing massive, but solid, sustainable, and scalable. Life was stable, predictable, and good.

A Future Without Limits and the Unexpected Return

Then Ferris walked into my repair shop. It was a busy afternoon with a line of customers and phones stacked for pickup.

Usual chaos. I looked up from a screen replacement and froze.

Ferris was standing in my shop. He was older and grayer, but unmistakably him.

The man who had driven me to Reena and Dev’s place 19 years ago and never looked back. He had the same posture and the same way of standing with his weight on one foot.,

Recognition hit me like a punch. He walked up to the counter grinning and opened his arms for a hug.

Customers were watching. I went through the motions and felt like embracing a stranger.

His cologne was different, but the grip was the same. It was weak and perfunctory, the kind of hug you give someone you’re obligated to touch but don’t actually want to hold.

I pulled him aside. He was loud, praising me and saying how proud he was.

He said how he’d heard about my success from someone who knew Dev. He was acting like my business was a family achievement.