I stood outside Chris’s parents’ house, my hand wrapped around his arm, nerves fluttering in my stomach.
“We do want them at the wedding, don’t we?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful, though I wasn’t convinced.
Chris sighed heavily. “If they can’t accept you by now, I don’t care anymore.”
But I knew that wasn’t entirely true. We both needed peace—some kind of closure before we walked down the aisle.
Inside, his mother greeted us with her usual frosty smile. No matter how often I showed up with kindness and respect, she never warmed up to me.
In her eyes, I was the outsider—the woman who had stolen her son away from Ciara, the elegant daughter of their family friends.
Chris and I hadn’t met in some fairy-tale setting—just a fender bender in front of my office. But love bloomed fast.
We clicked, we laughed, we couldn’t stay away from each other. It was easy between us. Until I met his family.
“She’s just an assistant?” I once heard his mother whisper disapprovingly. “Ciara would’ve been perfect for him.”
But Chris always stood up for me.
That’s the man I fell for. That’s the man I agreed to marry. That’s also the man I was quietly expecting a baby with.
Yes—I was pregnant. Chris didn’t know yet. I was planning to tell him soon, to surprise him with the news.
A small part of me hoped this baby might be the bridge between us and his difficult parents.
So, during dinner, I found the courage. “We have something to share,” I announced. “I’m pregnant.”
The room froze.
Then, coldly, Mrs. Castillo said, “That’s not possible. He’s infertile.”
My heart stopped. “What are you talking about? We’ve been trying…”
I turned to Chris, searching his face for clarity. But he just stared at his food, saying nothing. That silence shattered me.
What followed was chaos.
His mother erupted, accusing me of manipulation, shouting that I was trying to trap him. She even grabbed my hair while I begged Chris to speak—just one word, a sentence, anything. But he stayed quiet.
A few days later, I came home to an empty apartment. On the kitchen counter lay a medical file and a note scribbled on a yellow sticky pad:
“I’m infertile. I hope you have a good life—but it won’t be with me.”
He really believed I had cheated. But I hadn’t. That child was his. I tried to reach him, left messages, and showed up in person. His parents called the police on me.
So I gave up. “I’ll raise this child alone,” I whispered to myself. And I did.
I named him Paul. He had Chris’s eyes. Every time I looked at him, I saw the man who had once held me like I was the center of his world—and who then left me to carry our future alone.
But I stayed strong for Paul. I had to.
Years passed.
Then, one afternoon, I saw him. Chris. Just walking down the street.
“Amanda?” he said, clearly stunned. His eyes dropped to the photo on my phone. Paul.
“You don’t get to look at him,” I said coldly, and walked away without another word.
A week later, I heard the news—he was engaged to Ciara. Just like his parents had always wanted.
But life wasn’t done with twists.
At a formal dinner, someone joked about future grandchildren. Chris replied, almost absentmindedly, “I’m infertile.”
Everyone laughed, but Ciara’s mother said something that stopped him cold: “Well, that was the plan.”
The plan?
That’s when the illusion collapsed. The infertility? A complete lie. A fabricated diagnosis orchestrated by both families—his and Ciara’s.
Even the medical documents had been faked. It was all a setup to end our relationship and steer him toward a “suitable” match.
Chris didn’t waste a second. He left the event and came straight to my apartment. I found him asleep on my bed, his face tear-streaked and drawn.
“You’ve got five seconds before I call the police,” I told him, steeling myself.
“Amanda, please. Let me explain.”
So I listened.
He told me everything. The manipulated results, the pressure from his family, and the betrayal he didn’t see until it was too late. He admitted he should have trusted me. That he made the biggest mistake of his life.
“Yes,” I said. “You should’ve.”
He begged to be in Paul’s life. I hesitated. I had raised our son alone. I had walked through fire to keep going. I didn’t know if I could open that door again.
“I don’t know if we can fix this,” I said quietly.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he promised. “You and Paul… you’re my real family. I see that now.”
I looked at him closely. I saw pain. But I also saw the truth. Sincerity. Regret.
“Alright,” I said after a pause. “You can start by meeting your son.”
Then I added, with a faint smile, “And we might need to sue Mr. Geoffrey.”
Chris laughed—a raw, broken sound.
For the first time in years, something inside me loosened. Maybe, just maybe, there was a future after all this pain.
