I was ten years old that summer, and our family life was peaceful in a small community on the outskirts of the city.

My father was a mechanic, my mother sold at the market, and my siblings and I grew up between afternoons of kite-flying and simple dinners.

One day, while playing outside, Mom arrived accompanied by a thin boy, his clothes torn and his hair so disheveled it almost covered his eyes.

The boy, who looked about six years old, was silent, head down, his dirty hands clutching the hem of Mom’s dress.

“Son, this is Ti. He will be living with us for a while. Please let him join your games,” Mom said, her voice soft but firm.

I looked at the strange boy; his eyes were empty, as if he didn’t remember who he was or where he came from.

I wanted to ask, but seeing Mom’s seriousness, I simply nodded.

That night, Mom told us that she had seen Ti wandering around the market, hungry and scared.

She tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t remember anything: not his name, his family, or his home.

Dad suggested taking him to the police station to look for his relatives.

The officers recorded his information, but when they found no clues, they advised us to take him in temporarily while the investigation continued.

Mom and Dad agreed, and so Ti officially stayed with us.

In the following days, Ti slowly began to adjust.

Mom bought him new clothes, cut his hair, and enrolled him in my school.

Ti spoke very little; he seemed to have had his memories erased after an unknown accident.

Whenever I asked, Mom smiled: “Ti is your brother, and that’s enough.”

Dad asked me to look after him, and over time I grew accustomed to his gentle silence.

My older brother, who was a joker, often teased him, but soon I also grew fond of him and took him to catch grasshoppers in the fields.

Ti loved watching me paint; sometimes he would draw simple figures and secretly give them to me.

Years passed, and Mom and Dad began the process of formally adopting him, as nothing was ever known about his biological family.

Ti became an essential part of our family.

He was intelligent, studious, always at the top of his class, unlike me, who only excelled at painting.

His dream was to be an engineer, and he worked hard to achieve it.

At 18, he earned a full scholarship to a prestigious university.

The whole family was filled with joy. Mom hugged him through tears, and Dad proudly patted him on the shoulder, like a true son.

Twenty years have passed since Ti arrived.

Now I’m 30, a freelance painter, and I live in the city. My older brother has his own family, and my elderly parents are still in our old house.

Ti, a successful engineer, had just returned from a major project abroad.

To celebrate his return, we organized a family dinner.

That evening, as we laughed and talked, a luxury car pulled up outside the door.

A middle-aged couple, elegantly dressed, got out, along with an elderly man who looked like a lawyer.

Mom went to open the door, her face slightly worried.

The woman looked at Ti, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Minh… my son!” she sobbed.

We all froze.

Ti stood up suddenly, confused.

The man approached: “We are your parents. You are Hoang Minh, the only son of the Hoang Gia family, the largest conglomerate in the country.”

They said that twenty years ago, when Minh was six, the family went on vacation.

In a crowded market, the boy disappeared.

They searched everywhere for him without success. Minh had fallen and suffered a blow to the head that caused amnesia; he wandered alone until my mom found him outside the market.

The Hoang Gia family never stopped searching for him; they hired private investigators for years.

It was thanks to a detail in Ti’s scholarship file that they finally managed to find him.

Documents, childhood photos, and DNA tests confirmed that Ti was indeed Hoang Minh.

Silence filled the room.

I saw Ti trembling, his gaze torn between us and the wealthy strangers.

Mom took his hand, crying: “I didn’t know… I just wanted you to have a home.”

Dad hugged her to comfort her.

My older brother stood up and said firmly, “Ti is my brother, no matter what.”

Minh’s biological mother knelt before Mom:

“Thank you for raising my son. We didn’t come to take him away, we just want to see him again.”

Ti helped her up, but remained silent, visibly confused.

That evening, Ti spoke to all of us.

He admitted that it felt strange to know he was the son of a millionaire family, but said, “I don’t remember my past. For me, this is my real family. I grew up with the love of Mom, Dad, and my siblings.”

He hugged Mom and promised not to abandon us, although he would also maintain contact with the Hoang Gia family.

The Hoang Gia family offered financial help, but my mom refused.

“I raised Ti for love, not for money,” she replied.

Ti decided to maintain a relationship with both families, but always considered our house his true home.

For twenty years, that ragged child became a symbol of love and hope.

Ti—or Minh—became the pride of two families, reminding us that true family isn’t always blood relatives, but rather one that loves and chooses you unconditionally.