My father’s last words to me still echo in the quiet corners of my heart:
“If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter.”
I was 25 then—newly pregnant, hopeful, and deeply in love with Lucas, a kindhearted carpenter whose hands carried both strength and sincerity. But to my father, love without wealth was a mistake.
That night, I packed a single bag, kissed the home I’d grown up in goodbye, and stepped into a world I’d have to build from scratch.
The beginning was rough. Lucas and I lived in a small, creaky house, surviving on instant noodles and faith. Every dollar mattered. Every small victory—an extra shift, a paid bill—felt like a miracle. Then came the shock that changed everything: we were expecting triplets.
What followed were the hardest, most beautiful years of my life. Endless nights, sleepless feedings, and moments of exhaustion so deep they left me in tears. But through it all, Lucas never wavered. His calm strength, his steady love, kept our little family afloat.
Slowly, his carpentry business began to grow. Orders came in. Word spread. Our home filled with laughter, sawdust, and the smell of warm meals. It wasn’t luxury, but it was peace—the kind you earn through love and effort, not money.
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