Lucas worked hard, taking on every carpentry job he could find. I did what I could from home, juggling diapers and feeding schedules. Slowly, his reputation grew. Clients came back with more orders. We moved into a modest home, bought a secondhand car, and found a rhythm. We had peace, and for the first time in a long time, we could breathe.
Then came a phone call.
“I heard you have children now,” my father said. “Three,” I answered carefully. His voice was firm: “I’ll be there tomorrow. One chance. If you say no, don’t expect another.”
When he arrived, his polished car looked completely out of place in our gravel driveway. Dressed in a tailored suit, he stepped out and looked around our home—the floors Lucas had built, the framed family photos, the toys scattered about. He didn’t speak at first. Then, softly, “Oh… You’re not struggling.” His face changed. “What have you done?”
I met his eyes. “We’ve built a good life.”
He hesitated. “Come with me. I can give your children more.”
I stood firm. “They have everything they need. They have love, a stable home, and parents who worked for it.”
There was a flicker of sadness in his expression. Without another word, he walked back to his car. But he didn’t leave. I watched from the window as he sat for hours, head in hands. Eventually, he returned, knocking softly.
His face was wet with tears. “I was wrong,” he said. “I thought I was protecting you, but I see now—I pushed you away. What you’ve built… it’s beautiful. And I should have been proud all along.”
For the first time in years, we embraced. “I missed you,” I said.
We talked for hours—about the past, the mistakes, the love that had always been there, buried under pride. When the triplets came in, giggling and curious, he knelt down and smiled.
“Hi there,” he said gently.
“Grandpa?” one of them asked.
He nodded, eyes glistening. “Yes. Grandpa’s here now.”