I stood at Chris’s parents’ front door, clutching his arm. “We want them at our wedding, right?” I asked, trying to sound optimistic.

Chris let out a breath. “If they can’t accept you, I don’t care anymore.”

But I didn’t buy that. We both needed closure.

Inside, Mrs. Castillo greeted me with her usual cold smile. No matter how many times I tried to win them over, I was always the outsider—the woman who had taken their son away from Ciara, the polished daughter of their well-connected friends.

Chris and I had met by chance—a minor car accident outside my office. We fell in love fast. But the first time I met his parents, I knew they’d never approve.

“She’s an assistant?” I overheard his mother whisper. “Ciara adores you.”

But Chris defended me. That’s the man I said yes to. That’s the man I was secretly carrying a child for.

Yes, I was pregnant. Chris didn’t know yet. I was planning to surprise him.

Maybe, just maybe, this baby would be the thing that finally brought us all together.

At dinner, I gathered my courage. “We have news,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Then Mrs. Castillo muttered, “He’s infertile.”

I blinked, confused. “What? That’s not true—we’ve been trying.”

Chris didn’t speak. He just stared at his plate. And then the chaos broke loose—his mother yelling, accusing me of trapping him, even grabbing my hair while I begged Chris to say something. Anything. He didn’t.

Days later, I came home to an empty apartment. On the counter: medical papers and a sticky note.

“I’m infertile. I hope you have a good life, but it won’t be with me.”

He believed I’d cheated. But I hadn’t. That baby was his. I tried calling. No answer. I showed up—his parents called the police.

“Fine,” I said, heartbroken. “I’ll raise this baby on my own.”

And I did. I named him Paul. He looked just like his father. Every day, his blue eyes reminded me of Chris, but I kept going—for my son.

Then one day, I ran into Chris on the street.

“Amanda?” he said, stunned, eyes dropping to the photo on my phone—Paul’s face.