As I stood in my driveway, watching my father’s sleek black car roll in, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Three years had passed since the last time we spoke, and his words still echoed in my mind. “If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter.” It was the final nail in the coffin of our relationship, and I never thought I’d see him again.
Back then, my life seemed so simple. I was 25, working as a junior architect in the city, and deeply in love with Lucas, a kind and thoughtful carpenter. But the day I found out I was pregnant, everything changed.
When I told my father about my plans to marry Lucas, his reaction was cold and distant. He was always a man of stature, with sharp eyes that could see right through you. His silence was deafening, and when he finally spoke, his words were colder than I could have ever imagined.
“If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter.”
I pleaded with him, explaining that Lucas was hardworking and loved me. But for my father, love wasn’t enough. “Love doesn’t pay the bills,” he said. “You’re throwing your life away.”
That night, I left the only home I’d ever known and moved in with Lucas. My father cut me off completely, and for months, I struggled with anger and grief. The man who had once been my hero, who tucked me in at night and braided my hair before school, had abandoned me because I chose a life he didn’t approve of.
Life with Lucas was no walk in the park. His small house felt even smaller as my belly grew, and when we found out we were expecting not one, not two, but three babies, the challenges seemed insurmountable. The sleepless nights, the constant worry about money, the stress of raising three babies in a modest home – it was overwhelming. But Lucas was my rock. He worked tirelessly, taking on carpentry jobs wherever he could. Together, we fought for our family, piece by piece.
Slowly but surely, things began to turn around. Lucas’ talent caught the attention of a local business owner, and his reputation grew. By the time the triplets turned two, we had a stable home, a secondhand car, and most importantly, a life filled with love and joy.
Then, out of the blue, my father called. His voice was sharp, but it sounded different, as though the years had taken a toll on him. “I hear you have children now,” he said. “I’ll be there tomorrow. You and the children deserve a better life, and I’m giving you one chance to come back. If you say no, this is goodbye for good.”
The next day, his pristine black car pulled into our driveway. He stepped out, as composed as ever, his tailored suit standing out against the modest backdrop of our home.
“May I come in?” he asked, more of a command than a question.
