Three years ago, my father shut the door on our relationship, and I thought I’d never hear from him again—until his black car pulled into my driveway.
Back then, my life was simple. I was 25, a junior architect, and in love with Lucas, a soft-spoken carpenter. His love was quiet but unwavering, and I was sure my dad would disapprove.
I was right. When I told him I was pregnant and wanted to marry Lucas, he went silent. Then, in a voice colder than ever, he said, “If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter.” He called Lucas a mistake, a man with no future. I argued, but he walked away. That night, I packed my things and left.
Months of anger and hurt followed, but life moved on. Lucas and I built a home, however small, and prepared for our child.
Now, as my father steps out of his car, I wonder—has he changed his mind? Or is he here to remind me of the choice I made?
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