I never imagined life would turn out this way. Three years ago, the idea of being estranged from the man who raised me would’ve seemed absurd. Back then, everything felt simple—until two pink lines changed everything.
I was 25, a junior architect, and in love with Lucas, a quiet, kind-hearted carpenter. When I told my father I was pregnant and wanted to marry him, he gave me an ultimatum: choose Lucas or lose him. I chose love—and he walked away.
Lucas and I started over in a tiny home. We struggled, especially after our “twins” turned out to be triplets. But Lucas worked tirelessly, and eventually, his carpentry caught on. We built a life—modest but full of love.
Then my father called. After three silent years, he demanded we return to his world or be cut off forever. When he visited, he was shocked to see us not just surviving, but thriving.
Still, he begged me to leave with him—for the children’s “better future.” I refused. They already had what mattered: love, stability, and us.
He stormed off—but didn’t leave. Hours later, he knocked again, broken. He admitted he was wrong, apologized, and cried like I’d never seen. I forgave him.
When the triplets called him “Grandpa,” he smiled through tears. Finally, he was here—not with money, but with heart.
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