— He’s not coming, is he?» I asked the nurse, clutching the bundle with the baby close to me.
«Sometimes that happens, dear. Perhaps he was held up at work,» she replied, averting her gaze as if checking documents.
I looked at little Matvey’s tiny face, his barely noticeable eyebrows, and his pink lips, tied up like a bow.
The three-day-old son slept peacefully, unaware that his father had missed the most important moments—the first cry, the first feeding, the first sleepless night when I whispered lullabies to him, holding back tears of pain and joy.
The phone was silent. Igor hadn’t replied to any messages for two days now. The last time he wrote, “Busy. I’ll call back.” And that was it. Silence.
The ward filled with the voices of other women. Their husbands greeted them—with bouquets, with envelopes for the babies, with shining eyes. And I stood by the window, gazing down the road. Matvey squirmed, began to squeal, and I held him tighter.
«Lenochka, dear, we’re here.»
Mom appeared in the doorway of the maternity ward, followed by Dad carrying a huge bouquet of daisies—my favorite.
«He…» I began, then fell silent, noticing how Dad shook his head.
«They called him, sweetheart. No answer.»
My hand trembled so much that the nurse picked up Matvey while I was trying to put on my coat. My legs wobbled—not from weakness, but from a fear that filled my mind. Something had happened. Something irreparable.
«I parked the car around the corner,» Dad said, accepting his grandson from the nurse. «What a champ! So much of our own in him.»
There was a fierce edge in his voice. I knew—he was angry, ready to tear Igor to pieces. But he was silent because now was not the time.
The journey home seemed endless. Outside, trees, houses, and people flashed by. A normal life in which nothing would ever be the same again.
«Maybe something happened to him?» I asked when the car stopped by our house.
Mom patted my shoulder:
«Everything will work out, Lenochka. Right now, the baby is the most important.»
The old house greeted me with the familiar creak of its floorboards and the scent of Mom’s pies. This was where I had grown up.
The phone in my pocket vibrated as I stepped over the threshold. My heart leapt—finally! I handed Matvey over to Mom and took out the phone.
A message from Igor. A photograph.
In it, he was hugging a woman. Young, with long, light hair. In her arms—a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Almost identical to our Matvey.
«Sorry. It will be better for all of us. Don’t look for me, I’ll sell the apartment, it’s long been in my name, and I’ll send your things to your parents’ place.»
It felt as if walls had suddenly closed in around me. The air vanished. I stood in the middle of my own home, unable to breathe.
«Sweetie, what happened?» Mom’s voice came through as if through cotton.
I handed her the phone. Her face contorted, and she passed the phone to Dad.
He looked at the screen—and his face turned to stone. He silently placed the phone on the table, went to the coat rack, and began putting on his jacket.
«I’ll find that bastard,» he muttered through gritted teeth. «I’ll make him regret it. He has no right to just…»
«Don’t, Dad,» my voice sounded oddly calm. «He’s not in our lives anymore.»
I approached and took Matvey into my arms. My son opened his eyes—clear, pure. They held not a trace of betrayal. They held only life, only the future.
«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»
Raindrops began to fall outside. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, where there was no room for someone who didn’t want to be part of it.
Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blossoming apple trees and honey. Matvey, using my fingers for support, took his first steps across the wooden floor of the family home.
Seven months—a time that transforms pain into a memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.
«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said as he scooped up his grandson under his arms and raised him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»
Matvey burst into laughter, his chubby legs flailing in the air. His eyes—deep and observant—explored the world with the eagerness of an explorer.
He didn’t yet understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.
Grandma was embroidering on the porch, glancing at us through the open door.
«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she smiled. «You’ll scare the little one.»
«Scare him?!» Dad burst out laughing. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»
I watched them, and inside something new began to blossom—not happiness just yet, but calm. As if after a long storm, silence had finally set in.
Spring turned into summer, and summer into autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of the photograph on the phone, which I had long deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer spoke aloud.
Work helped me move on. At first, I made custom children’s clothes—sitting by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.
Later, I was invited to conduct handicraft classes at the village school. I loved watching the kids’ eyes light up when something new and beautiful was born from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.
Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.
In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa created culinary magic in the kitchen. Dad—a former chef—shared with his grandson all the subtleties of the culinary arts.
«Remember, you must sprinkle salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the pot with a serious expression. «Just a little, but with warmth.»
Matvey nodded with the importance of someone making a life-changing decision.
One evening, while tucking my son into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded for all these years:
«Mom, where’s my dad?»
My heart clenched, but I did not let myself falter. Matvey looked at me directly—without resentment, without sadness. Just with childlike curiosity.
«He left when you were just born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»
«Is that because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered again.
«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me,» I hugged him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»
Matvey pondered the words for a moment.
«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»
I smiled, hiding my tears:
«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there’s care in the family.»
«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»
That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, gazing into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.
For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.
When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me unlike any other moment in life.
It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that even the deepest betrayal cannot uproot.
«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»
Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled, looking into the mirror.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.
«In the hall, under the bench,» I replied, fastening my earrings. «And you haven’t forgotten that today it’s your turn to cook, have you?»
From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and laughter.
«How could I forget? Grandpa will scold me if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»
I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar slung over his back, and confidence in his eyes.
I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: there he was, my little Matvey, and at the same time—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and shades of character I had never noticed before.
«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»
Outside, raindrops began to fall. But here, surrounded by the walls of home and loved ones, I understood—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter in our story, one where there was no place for someone who chose not to participate.
Summer in the village spread the scent of blooming apple trees and honey. Matvey, leaning on my fingers, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.
Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.
«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»
Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and curious—explored the world with the zeal of a pioneer.
He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just mom and dad, but mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.
Grandma sat on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.
«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the baby.»
«Scare him?!» Dad chuckled. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»
I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not happiness just yet, but peace. As if, after a long storm, silence had finally taken hold.
Spring turned to summer, and summer to autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of that photo on the phone, which I had long since deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer uttered aloud.
Work helped me move on. At first, I sewed custom children’s clothes by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.
Later, I was invited to teach handicraft classes at the rural school. I loved watching the kids’ eyes light up when something new and beautiful emerged from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.
Thus the years flowed by, and my son grew up.
In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa worked their magic in the kitchen. Dad—a former head chef—shared all the secrets of culinary art with his grandson.
«Remember, sprinkle the salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the spoon in the pot with a serious look. «Just a little, but with warmth.»
Matvey nodded with the importance of someone making a life-altering decision.
One evening, as I was tucking him into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded all these years:
«Mom, where is my dad?»
My heart clenched, but I didn’t let myself flinch. Matvey looked at me directly—without any resentment or sorrow. Just with childlike curiosity.
«He left when you were born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»
«Is it because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered once more.
«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened in my life,» I hugged him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»
Matvey pondered for a moment.
«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»
I smiled, hiding my tears:
«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there is care in the family.»
«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»
That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, staring into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.
For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.
When I saw Dad standing with Matvey by the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, a warmth filled me that no other moment in life could provide.
It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that not even the strongest betrayal could tear out.
«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»
Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled as I looked in the mirror.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.
«In the hall, under the bench,» I answered, fastening my earrings. «And don’t forget, today it’s your turn to cook.»
From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»
I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar on his back, and confidence in his eyes.
I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: here he was, my little Matvey, and yet—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and nuances of character I had never noticed before.
«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»
Outside, raindrops began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.
Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blossoming apple trees and honey. Matvey, using my fingers for support, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.
Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.
«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»
Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and inquisitive—explored the world with the passion of an explorer.
He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.
Grandma sat on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.
«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the child.»
«Scare him?!» Dad laughed. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»
I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not happiness yet, but peace. As if after a long storm, silence had finally settled.
Spring turned into summer, and summer into autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of that photograph on the phone—which I had long since deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer spoke aloud.
Work helped me move on. At first, I sewed custom children’s clothes by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.
Later, I was invited to teach handicraft classes at the village school. I loved watching the children’s eyes light up when something new and beautiful emerged from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.
Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.
In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa created culinary masterpieces in the kitchen. Dad—a former head chef—shared all the intricacies of the culinary arts with his grandson.
«Remember, sprinkle the salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the spoon in the pot with a serious look. «Just a little, but with warmth.»
Matvey nodded with the gravitas of someone making a life-changing decision.
One evening, as I tucked him into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded all these years:
«Mom, where is my dad?»
My heart clenched, but I did not let myself falter. Matvey looked at me directly—without any anger or sorrow. Just with childlike curiosity.
«He left when you were born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»
«Is it because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered once again.
«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened in my life,» I said, hugging him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»
Matvey thought about it for a moment.
«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»
I smiled, hiding my tears:
«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there is care in a family.»
«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»
That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, gazing into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.
For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.
When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me that no other moment in life could match.
It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that not even the strongest betrayal could tear out.
«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»
Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled, looking into the mirror.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.
«In the hall, under the bench,» I replied, fastening my earrings. «And don’t forget, today it’s your turn to cook.»
From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»
I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar slung over his back, and confidence in his eyes.
I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: there he was, my little Matvey, and yet—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and shades of character I had never noticed before.
«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»
Outside, the rain began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.
Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blooming apple trees and honey. Matvey, leaning on my fingers for support, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.
Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.
«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»
Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and curious—explored the world with the zeal of a pioneer.
He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.
Grandma was on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.
«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the baby.»
«Scare him?!» Dad laughed. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»
I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not yet happiness, but peace. As if after a long storm, silence had finally settled.
Spring turned into summer, and summer into autumn. With every month, every year, I recalled less and less of the photo on the phone—which I had long since deleted. Of the man whose name I no longer uttered aloud.
Work helped me move on. At first, I sewed custom children’s clothes by the window while Matvey slept peacefully.
Later, I was invited to teach handicraft classes at the village school. I loved watching the children’s eyes light up when something new and beautiful emerged from a piece of fabric. Before that, I had worked in the city as a teacher.
Thus the years passed, and my son grew up.
In the evenings, Matvey and Grandpa created culinary masterpieces in the kitchen. Dad—a former head chef—shared all the intricacies of the culinary arts with his grandson.
«Remember, sprinkle the salt as if it were precious metal,» he told the three-year-old, who stirred the spoon in the pot with a serious look. «Just a little, but with warmth.»
Matvey nodded with the gravitas of someone making a life-changing decision.
One evening, as I tucked him into bed, I heard the question I had dreaded all these years:
«Mom, where is my dad?»
My heart clenched, but I did not let myself falter. Matvey looked at me directly—without any anger or sorrow. Just with childlike curiosity.
«He left when you were born,» I said, stroking his soft hair. «He chose another path.»
«Is it because I’m bad?» Matvey asked, and my heart shattered once again.
«No, baby. You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened in my life,» I said, hugging him tightly. «Your father simply… couldn’t be a real father. But you have a grandpa who loves you more than anything in the world. And me. And grandma.»
Matvey thought about it for a moment.
«So, I just have a different kind of family,» he finally said. «Like Petya from kindergarten. He doesn’t have a dad either, but he has two grandmas.»
I smiled, hiding my tears:
«Yes, families are different. But the most important thing is that there is care in a family.»
«We have plenty of that,» Matvey declared confidently, yawning. «More than there are stars in the sky.»
That night, I sat on the porch for a long time, gazing into the dark sky. Matvey was right—there was indeed more warmth than stars.
For the first time in so many months, I felt that I could simply live—without counting every breath, without fearing that joy might vanish at any moment.
When I saw Dad standing with Matvey at the stove, patiently showing him how to fillet a fish, an inner warmth spread through me that no other moment in life could match.
It was something more—a quiet strength of family, roots that not even the strongest betrayal could tear out.
«Mom, where are my sneakers? The new ones with blue stripes?»
Matvey’s voice, already shifting from child to young man, echoed through the house. I smiled as I looked in the mirror.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the day I returned home with a newborn son and a broken heart.
«In the hall, under the bench,» I replied, fastening my earrings. «And don’t forget, today it’s your turn to cook.»
From Matvey’s room came a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
«How could I forget? Grandpa will have my head if dinner isn’t up to his standards!»
I walked downstairs and froze, watching my son. When had he grown so much? Shoulders like an adult man’s, a guitar slung over his back, and confidence in his eyes.
I still couldn’t get used to the feeling: here he was, my little Matvey, and yet—a completely different person, with his own secrets, dreams, and nuances of character I had never noticed before.
«We’ll manage,» I said, looking into those eyes. «Right, baby? We’ll manage.»
Outside, the rain began to fall. But here, surrounded by familiar walls and loved ones, I realized—this was not the end. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Our story with Matvey, in which there was no room for someone who chose not to participate.
Summer in the village exuded the fragrance of blossoming apple trees and honey. Matvey, using my fingers for support, took his first steps on the wooden floor of our family home.
Seven months—a time that transforms pain into memory, and a tiny bundle into a person with character.
«Look at him, standing so firmly on his feet!» Dad said, scooping up his grandson under his arms and raising him toward the ceiling. «A true hero! So much of our own in him.»
Matvey laughed, his little legs flailing. His eyes—deep and curious—explored the world with the zeal of a pioneer.
He still didn’t understand that his family wasn’t just his mom and dad, but his mom, grandpa, and grandma. And that realization brought me a strange relief.
Grandma was on the porch embroidering, glancing at us through the open door.
«Sashenka, don’t toss him so high,» she said with a smile. «You’ll scare the baby.»
«Scare him?!» Dad laughed. «He’s fearless. Right, Matveyka?»
I watched them, and inside something new began to bloom—not yet happiness, but peace. As if after a long storm, silence had finally settled.
Summer faded, and then one day, a knock echoed at our door.
I opened it to find Igor standing there—gaunt, with strands of gray in his hair, and a faded look in his eyes. In that moment, twenty-six years seemed to vanish—I recognized him instantly.
«Why are you here?» My voice didn’t waver, though everything inside me had turned upside down.
«I heard about the wedding,» he stuttered, shifting from foot to foot. «Through mutual acquaintances. I…I thought I had the right…»
«Right?» I said, not raising my voice, but he seemed to recoil. «What right do you have to a son you haven’t seen once in twenty-six years?»
He ran his hand over his face, as if wiping away an invisible cobweb:
«I know I acted like a horrible person. I just wanted to see him. To apologize. Maybe even…» he faltered.
«Even what?»
«Maybe just stand here, like a father…»
I laughed—a laugh that even surprised myself. It held no bitterness or anger—only genuine wonder.
«You’re twenty-six years too late, Igor. Today, the only one who stands beside my son is me. The person who was there every day. And my parents.»
Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Matvey appeared in the doorway—in a dark blue suit, with a sprig of rosemary in his lapel.
He shifted his gaze from me to Igor, and his face turned to stone. Inside, everything nearly broke. But not today. Not on this day.
«Matvey,» I said softly, «you don’t owe him anything.»
«I know who you are,» my son said calmly, looking directly at Igor. «I saw your photograph.»
Igor stepped toward him:
«Son, I know I have no right… but I’d like to apologize. And, if you allow, meet you. With your fiancée.»
Matvey looked at him without anger—as if studying a stranger on the street.
«You weren’t there when I was sick and couldn’t sleep. When I started first grade. When I broke my arm and Grandpa drove me to the hospital across the village,» he said quietly. «I forgive you.»
Because resentment is a burden too heavy to bear. But in my life, there’s no room for you. Especially not today.
Igor seemed to age another ten years in those few minutes.
«I understand,» he whispered. «Forgive me. And… be happy.»
He turned and left, slouching.
Matvey hugged me:
«Everything’s fine, Mom. Shall we go?»
I clutched him, feeling my heart race:
«Are you sure you’re okay?»
He smiled—as he did in childhood when he’d scrape his knees but bravely carried on:
«I’m marrying the best girl in the world. With you by my side, Mom, I wouldn’t be who I am. How could I not be okay?»
The music began. Guests stood up. Matvey and I walked along a petal-strewn path. At the end, under an arch, stood Nastya—in a simple light dress, with a wreath of cornflowers, beautiful in her nervous excitement. Matvey squeezed my hand, and we walked on. With every step, I felt the weight of past years lift.
Once, betrayal had seemed to break me. But it merely pointed me toward a different path—the one that led to this perfect moment.
…
In the evening, as guests danced under the stars and Matvey twirled Nastya in their first family dance, I stepped out onto the porch for a breather. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and blooming linden.
The door creaked. Matvey came out and sat beside me.
«Why aren’t you with your wife?» I asked with a smile.
«I just wanted to check on you,» he said, resting his head on my shoulder. «Love you, Mom.»
«And I love you, dear.»
We sat in silence, gazing at the sky. How strange life was. Once, my life had crumbled because of the betrayal of a beloved person.
But today, I was truly happy—and I wouldn’t have been if he had stayed with us. My son grew up strong, honest, and capable of love. Could he have been that way with a father who led a double life?
«You know,» Matvey said quietly, as if reading my thoughts, «I wouldn’t change a thing—even if I could go back. We took the right path, Mom.»
I kissed his temple:
«Go to your wife. She’s waiting for you.»
He stood and, before leaving, said:
«Thank you for choosing life over sorrow. You taught me that.»
I sat on the porch for a long time afterward. The stars twinkled in the dark sky—the same ones that shone when I stood with a baby in my arms, holding a photo of someone else’s family.
We don’t choose who betrays us. But we choose with whom to build our lives. And I chose correctly.»
