My first marriage taught me a brutal truth: some people only love when it suits them.
Mark and I spent years trying for a baby—charts in the kitchen, doctor’s appointments at lunch, months of hope ending in quiet disappointment. Eventually, even saying “children” felt like stepping on thin ice.
One night, I finally asked, “What if we adopted?”
He looked irritated. “I’m not raising someone else’s kid. How could I love a child who isn’t mine?”
I realized then I was alone in that marriage.
Months later, at an adoption agency, a social worker handed me a photo. “This is Willie.” His crooked, genuine grin made my chest tighten. I didn’t ask Mark’s permission—I moved forward. He filed for divorce. I adopted Willie.
Single motherhood was exhausting, beautiful, and real. I assumed romance was over for me—until I met Harold.
At the playground, Harold appeared when my son played with a little girl. He was attentive, kind, patient. We kept seeing each other. Harold never treated Willie like an obligation. When he proposed, I believed I’d found something rare: a man who loved both me and my son.
Three days before our wedding, a stranger grabbed me. “Harold didn’t meet you by accident,” she whispered. “Look in his wallet.”
Inside, behind his driver’s license, was Willie’s adoption photo, records, and a note: Find him. We lost him once, but after I’m gone, you’ll have a second chance.
I confronted the adoption agency. Harold and his late wife had tried to adopt Willie years ago but were denied due to her terminal illness. He had tracked us, hoping for a second chance.
At the rehearsal, I asked Harold about the note. He admitted, “I never meant to fall in love with you. I just wanted to be close to him.”
I ended the engagement. Weeks later, tucking Willie in, he asked, “Mom? Are we okay?”
I brushed his hair back. “We are always okay. No matter what happens.”
I had chosen him once. I would choose him every time.