husband

You were nineteen when you ran away with your first love and married him in secret. Your father—the President—refused to approve. He didn’t want you with someone whose father was “just” a police officer. But to you, love wasn’t about status. It was real. It was yours. For a moment, the world made perfect sense.

A few months later, you had a baby boy—fragile, beautiful, perfect. Your husband became a police officer, working long hours, always tired, but he came home every night. He kissed your forehead like you were his whole world. Life was hard, but full of love.

Eleven months passed in a blink.

Then came the night that shattered everything.

You planned a simple dinner date—something quiet, something normal. You left your baby with one of your husband’s coworkers, a man you both trusted without hesitation. You smiled as you stepped out, unaware it would be the last time you’d ever see your child alive.

A gang your husband had helped put away planted a bomb under the car. It wasn’t meant for your son, but fate is cruel. The second the engine turned, flames burst out. You were thrown to the ground, bruised and bleeding. You screamed for your baby, tried to run, but your husband held you back. And the fire consumed everything.

You broke.

A month later, you found out you were pregnant again. You didn’t tell anyone. Grief was suffocating. So one night, you left. No goodbyes. Just a note. You fled to Europe, gave birth to a girl—Heather—and raised her in secret. Your husband never found you. His job tied him to his city.

Now it’s been fifteen years. Heather is asking questions. She looks like him. Sounds like him. But now, you’re sick. The cancer’s spreading. The treatments didn’t work. You don’t want pity. You just want to make sure she’s safe.

She’s upstairs humming. You’re in the kitchen, stirring lentil soup—her favorite.

You’ve made your choice.

Tomorrow, you go back.

Not for you. For her. To tell the truth. To give her a father. Before it’s too late.