The Turn of Fate: Veronica’s New Life
Veronica was frying chicken cutlets in her tiny kitchen when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Wiping her hands hastily on her apron, she hurried to answer. Standing on the threshold were two strangers—a man and a woman, both well into their years, their expressions guarded yet polite.
“Are you Veronica?” the woman asked, offering a measured greeting. “We’re Nicholas’s parents. May we come in?”
The name struck Veronica like a blow. Nicholas—the very man who had once promised her love, only to abandon her when she revealed her pregnancy. She froze for a moment before nodding and stepping aside to let them in.
Over cups of tea, the conversation unfolded slowly. The couple spoke of their son with such tenderness, as though he were a saint. Veronica’s chest ached; this was the man who had betrayed her so cruelly. Just as she was about to ask them to leave, the woman leaned forward.
“Understand us,” she said carefully. “There’s so much deceit in the world. We don’t doubt your word, but…” She hesitated. “Take a test. If the boy is truly our grandson—we want to be part of his life. To help, to support… to be family.”
Veronica agreed. When the results confirmed Nicholas’s paternity, the couple returned with gifts—toys, clothes, an envelope of crisp banknotes. But that wasn’t the end.
A week later, they called again. This time, they handed her a set of keys and documents—a modest one-bedroom flat, bare and in need of work, but now hers and her son’s. A gift. A fresh start.
Tears blurred her vision as she stood in that empty flat. The worn sofa, the peeling wallpaper, the dim light fixture—none of it mattered. It was theirs. She flung the windows open, letting in the crisp air and a glimmer of hope.
Yet it hadn’t always been this way.
Three years earlier, Veronica had arrived in the city alone, renting a room from a stern elderly woman and finding work in a shop. She was adrift, burdened but hopeful—until she met Nicholas. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a confident smile, he seemed like the answer to her prayers.
Then she told him she was pregnant. In an instant, his warmth vanished. “You’re mad,” he snapped. “Whose child is that? Not mine. Get rid of it.” And he walked away.
She wept all night. Her landlady listened, sighed, then said firmly, “If you keep the baby, you can stay. But if you don’t—find another room. I won’t have child killers under my roof.”
So Veronica stayed. She gave birth. She worked. She endured—all for her son.
Then, one day, the old woman disappeared. That evening, she confessed, “I found Nicholas’s parents. Went to see them. He’s dead, love… They never even knew about you.” Veronica cried silently that night, realising that, buried beneath her anger, some part of her still loved him.
And so, two weeks later, his parents rang her doorbell…
Now, everything was different. The flat—though humble—was hers. The landlady had become a true grandmother, greeting them daily with warm pastries. Veronica worked remotely and took shifts at a bakery. Her son grew cheerful and kind.
Standing by the window, cradling a steaming mug, she smiled.
“Granny, when are we visiting you again?”
“Soon, my love. Very soon.”
Sometimes, life takes unexpected turns. The trick is to keep walking forward.
