One ordinary evening, my routine was disrupted by a phone call that would stir old wounds and alter our future. My son Jonathan was in the living room, his laughter echoing through our home. When I checked my phone, I saw it was Lorraine, my ex-wife, who had left us three years ago.
“Mark, please. He’s my son too. I need to see him,” she pleaded, her voice choked with emotion. Lorraine’s departure had been a devastating blow. As an Army private, I was often away, relying on her to care for Jonathan, but she chose to leave us for her boss.
For three years, Jonathan and I built a new life together. Recently, a mutual friend, Jenny, informed me that Lorraine’s boss had left her and fired her. Two days later, Lorraine called again, in tears, begging to see Jonathan. “Where have you been all this time?” I asked.
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