*The Turn of Fate: Veronica’s New Life*
Veronica was frying chicken cutlets in the kitchen when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. She wiped her hands quickly on her apron and went to answer it. Standing on the doorstep were two strangers—a man and a woman, both older, composed, their emotions carefully restrained.
“Are you Veronica?” the woman spoke first, offering a polite nod. “We’re Nicholas’s parents. May we come in?”
The name hit Veronica like a blow. Nicholas—the man who had once promised her love, then walked away the moment she told him she was pregnant. Her breath caught for a second, but she nodded and stepped aside, letting them in.
Over tea, the conversation unfolded slowly. The couple spoke of their son with such warmth, as if he had been a saint. Every word stung. He had been her deepest betrayal. Just as she was about to ask them to leave, the woman hesitated, then said,
“Please understand. These days, there’s so much deceit, so many frauds. We don’t doubt your word, but… take a test. If the boy truly is our grandson—we want to be in his life. To help, to support… to be family.”
Veronica agreed. And when the results confirmed Nicholas’s paternity, they returned—not empty-handed. Toys, clothes, an envelope of cash… But it didn’t end there.
A week later, they called. At their next meeting, they handed her papers—a modest one-bedroom flat, bare and in need of repairs, but now hers. A gift. A surprise. A fresh start.
Standing in that empty flat, Veronica couldn’t hold back her tears. The worn sofa, peeling wallpaper, the dim lightbulb—but it was theirs. Her home. She flung open the windows, letting in the crisp air and something else—hope.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Three years ago, she’d arrived in the city with nothing but dreams, renting a room from a sharp-tongued old woman and working long hours at a corner shop. Then she met Nicholas—tall, strong, with a confident grin. For a while, she thought she’d found happiness.
But when she told him she was pregnant, his warmth vanished. “You’re joking, right? Whose child is this? Not mine. Get rid of it.” And just like that, he was gone.
She’d wept all night. The old woman, listening from the doorway, had sighed heavily. “If you keep it, you can stay,” she’d said. “But if you don’t—find another place. I don’t abide by that sort of thing.”
So Veronica stayed. She worked. She raised her son.
Then one evening, the old woman returned after a day’s absence. “I found his parents,” she admitted. “Went to see them. He’s dead, Veronica. And they never even knew about you.” That night, alone, Veronica sobbed—not just from anger, but from the realization that somewhere, despite everything, she had still loved him.
Two weeks later, his parents rang her doorbell.
Now, everything was different. The flat was small, worn, but hers. The old woman—no longer just a landlady, but a grandmother in every sense—brought them pies every Sunday. Veronica worked remotely and took shifts at a bakery. Her son was bright and kind.
Standing by the window, cradling a warm mug, she smiled as her boy tugged at her sleeve.
“Nanna, when can we visit you again?”
“Soon, love,” the old woman called from the kitchen. “Very soon.”
Life had a way of twisting unexpectedly. The trick was to keep moving forward.
