What kept me going were those quiet bedtime moments when Max or Lily would wrap their arms around me and whisper, “We love you, Daddy.” That was everything.
By the second year, things started to turn around. I landed a freelance coding project, and my client was so impressed that he offered me a remote position. The pay wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady. We moved to a sunnier state with better schools. I got back into a routine, focused on my health, and gave my kids the consistency and joy they deserved.
Then, one afternoon at a local café while catching up on work, I saw someone I never expected to see again—Anna.
She sat alone in a corner booth, her eyes closed, tears silently falling. She looked tired, distant from the confident woman I once knew. Our eyes met. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Eventually, I walked over—not out of anger or curiosity, but because she was still the mother of my children.
“You left without a word,” I said quietly. “And you never reached out. Not once.”
She looked down. “I made a mistake. After I left, everything fell apart. I lost my job, my savings. I’ve been moving from place to place, trying to figure things out. I miss you. I miss them.”
There was a long silence. Then she added, “I don’t expect anything—I just wanted you to know.”
I stood there, holding years of heartbreak in my chest. And then I said something I never thought I would.
“You still have a choice. Not about us, but about them. Max and Lily deserve to know their mom cares.”
She nodded through tears. “I want to try.”
We didn’t solve everything that day. There was no dramatic reunion or easy fix. But it was a step. Whether it leads to healing or closure, only time will tell.
As I walked out of that café, I felt the weight of the past begin to shift. I had two amazing kids at home who were my world. And maybe, just maybe, the story wasn’t over—just turning a new page.