“If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter.” Those were the last words my father said to me three years ago before cutting me out of his life. I never thought I’d hear from him again—until his black car showed up in my driveway.
Back then, I was 25, a junior architect, and in love with Lucas—a humble, kind carpenter from a small village. When I told my dad I was pregnant and planning to marry Lucas, he was livid. “He has nothing to offer you,” he said. “You’re throwing your life away.”
I chose Lucas anyway. We moved into his tiny home, and soon, what we thought were twins turned out to be triplets. Life was hard—money tight, nights sleepless—but full of love. Lucas worked tirelessly, and eventually, his carpentry took off. We built a modest but happy life.
Then my father called. After three years of silence, he offered a second chance—on his terms. When he arrived, he was cold and judgmental, appalled we weren’t struggling. He offered us wealth, a “better life.” I told him we already had one.
He left… but didn’t drive away. Hours passed before he returned to our door, broken and tearful. “I was wrong,” he said. We both cried. He apologized for everything, and I forgave him.
When the triplets ran in, one asked, “Grandpa?” And through his tears, he smiled. “Yes. Grandpa’s here now.”