Lately, Daniel felt like a stranger—distant, secretive, always “working late.” Hoping to reconnect, I surprised him at our cabin where we first fell in love.
But instead of romance, I found signs of another woman—lipstick on a mug, a silk blouse, and worst of all, a half-burned DNA test in the fireplace. It confirmed Daniel was the father. Of a child I never knew existed.
I waited.
Hours later, Daniel walked in—and froze when he saw me holding the envelope. Then came her. “I’m Anna,” she said. “Daniel’s… friend.”
She had proof too—a photo of the test. He finally confessed: “Anna got pregnant. I panicked. I tried to protect you.”
I looked at them both. “You didn’t just lie. You hid a child.”
Anna nodded. “I’ll raise him honestly.”
Daniel begged, “Please forgive me.”
“I’ll need time,” I said. Because the truth was out—and love would have to survive it.