**A Twist of Fate: Veronica’s New Life**
Veronica was frying chicken cutlets in the kitchen when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Wiping her hands quickly on her apron, she went to answer it. On the doorstep stood two strangers—a man and a woman, neither young, their expressions composed yet guarded.
“Are you Veronica?” the woman spoke first, offering a polite nod. “We’re Edward’s parents. May we come in?”
The name hit Veronica like a blow. Edward—the man who had once promised her love, then walked away the moment she told him she was pregnant. She froze for a second but nodded, stepping aside to let them in.
Over cups of tea, the conversation drifted slowly. The couple spoke of their son with such warmth, as though he were a saint. Veronica’s chest tightened; the man they described bore no resemblance to the one who had shattered her trust. Just as she was about to ask them to leave, the woman hesitated, then said,
“Please understand. These days, there’s so much deceit. We don’t doubt you, but… could you take a test? If the boy truly is our grandson… we want to be part of his life. To help, to support—to be family.”
Veronica agreed. When the results confirmed Edward’s paternity, the couple returned not empty-handed: toys, clothes, an envelope with pounds tucked inside. But that wasn’t the end.
A week later, they called. At their next meeting, they handed her papers—a small flat, unfurnished and worn, but now hers and her son’s. A gift. A surprise. A fresh start.
Standing in that bare little flat, Veronica couldn’t hold back her tears. The faded wallpaper, the dim ceiling light, the second-hand sofa—none of it mattered. It was theirs. She flung the windows open, letting in the crisp air and something else—hope.
And yet, it had all begun so differently.
Three years ago, she’d moved to London, renting a cramped room from a stern old woman and working long hours at a corner shop. Alone, struggling, but dreaming. Then she met Edward—tall, broad-shouldered, with a grin that made her believe in happy endings.
Until she told him she was pregnant.
“You’re mad,” he’d snapped. “How could it be mine? Get rid of it.” Then he was gone.
She’d cried all night. The old woman, her landlady, had listened, sighed, then said, “If you keep the baby, you can stay. If not, find another room. I won’t have a hand in that.”
So Veronica stayed. She worked. She raised her boy.
Then, one day, the landlady disappeared. That evening, she returned, eyes sharp. “I found Edward’s parents. Went to see them. He’s dead, can you believe it? And they never even knew about you.” That night, Veronica cried silently, realising that somewhere, beneath the hurt, she had still loved him.
Two weeks later, his parents rang her doorbell.
Now, everything was different. The flat might be shabby, but it was home. The old landlady, now more grandmother than landlord, brought them pies every Sunday. Veronica worked remotely and picked up shifts at a bakery. Her son grew brighter, kinder every day.
Standing by the window, cradling a warm mug, she smiled.
“Gran, when are we visiting you again?”
“Soon, love. Very soon.”
Life takes unexpected turns. The trick is to keep walking forward.
