A Second Chance at Happiness “Sir, please stop following me! I told you, I’m in mourning for my husband. Don’t pursue me—you’re starting to frighten me!” I raised my voice. “I remember, I do… But it feels as though you’re mourning for yourself. Forgive me,” my persistent admirer replied. …After my husband’s sudden passing, I retreated to a countryside retreat for peace—seeking only silence and birdsong, not the attentions of meddlesome men. The loss of Oleg, my husband, left me alone with two teenage sons, a half-renovated flat, and an insurmountable ache. Reluctantly, at my colleagues’ urging, I left for the retreat. There, I was assigned to share my room with the ever-cheerful Vicky, who seemed to radiate joy. She laughed off my warnings about the men who courted her, while I spent my days in solitude. One morning, I stepped out for fresh woodland air and met a stranger—one I’d already spotted in the dining room; impeccably dressed and always greeting me with respectful bows. Though he was much shorter and not at all my type, he brought wildflowers each evening and, despite my resistance, grew ever more persistent. Valentine—so he introduced himself—joined me for evening strolls, soon convincing me to forgo my heels. His gentle voice and warmth eventually softened my resolve. On our last night, I yielded to Valentine’s invitation to his room for tea, our connection culminating in an unexpected new romance. But when I returned home, Valentine’s wife wrote to reveal their marriage. Months passed until Valentine appeared unannounced at my door—divorced now—and with hopes of building a blended family with me and his daughter. Life together proved anything but easy. My eldest, Andrew, and Valentine’s daughter, Alena, resented us for their disrupted childhoods—ultimately marrying each other, then growing distant. Yet, through hardships and hurt feelings, Valentine and I held on to our love. Years later, Andrew and Alena welcomed a son—our first shared grandchild. Over a joyful family meal, they finally forgave us, naming the boy Miles to symbolize new peace. So this is our second chance at happiness—our newfound, newborn joy.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 10 minViews 2

REBORN HAPPINESS

Sir, will you please stop following me around! I have told you, I am mourning my husband. Leave me be! Im starting to get frightened! My voice grew louder with every word.

I remember, I remember But I cant shake the feeling that youre really mourning for yourself. Forgive me, my persistent admirer replied, undeterred.

I had gone away to a retreat in the countryside, longing for peace, birdsong, and solitudenot to be bothered by persistent men. My husband had passed away suddenly just weeks ago. I needed to gather my wits, to process so deep a loss.

Owen and I had only just begun refurbishing our little flat, saving every pound, denying ourselves any luxury. Then suddenly Owen took illparamedics could do nothing. A second heart attack. With Owen gone, not only was I alone, but the flat stood unfinished. What remained were my two teenage sons. How was I to cope? Grief sapped the strength from my hands.

At work, they offered me a ticket to a health resort. At first, I refused to leave my flat. It was my colleagues who insisted:

Others have lost husbands before you and others will, sad as it is. You have sons. You must carry on, Harriet. Go, have a change of scenery. Clear your mind.

Reluctantly, I agreed.

Forty days had passed since I lost Owen. The pain showed no sign of easing. At the retreat, I was assigned a room with a cheerful girl named Emily. She radiated constant joy and light. Strange as it sounds, it somewhat irritated me; my grief felt too heavy to share with a carefree girl. If it even needed sharing at all? As expected, Emily attracted the interest of one of the entertainersthose who, in resorts like these, are generally widowed, divorced, or heartbroken. I warned Emily about that charming host; likely married for a second or third time.

She only laughed, Oh, dont worry, Harriet! Im not as naive as I look.

And off shed flit every evening to her dates. I, in contrast, spent my week ensconced in our room, reading books I couldnt recall, staring at the telly but seeing nothing at all.

One morning, I awoke to a rare moment of contentment. The woods outside looked heavenly. I decided to walk among the trees, listen to the birds, and breathe the morning air. Thats when I met him.

Id noticed him in the dining room beforea stocky man with a bald head and a bold, direct stare. He stood a full head shorter than me. Frankly, I found him distasteful. He was, though, well-groomed, freshly shaven, and always impeccably dressed. Every supper, he would bow in my direction. Out of courtesy, Id nod back, but with no intention of encouraging him.

Once, he took a seat at my table.

Feeling lonely, madam? he asked, his tone smooth as velvet.

No, I replied icily.

Dont fib, miss. Anyone can see the sorrow in your eyes. Perhaps I might help? he pressed on.

Youre quite right. Im grieving for my late husband. Any other questions? I wiped my hands and stood, indicating the conversation was over.

Im sorry. I didnt know. My sympathies. Still, lets introduce ourselves. Im Philip, he said, hurriedly extending his hand.

It was clear Philip was anxious not to lose my company.

Harriet, I replied reluctantly before making a quick exit.

From then on, Philip would sit at my table each night, offering me a posy of bluebells, which grew everywhere nearby. It was a small but pleasant gesture. But I had no plans for a romance.

Philip was persistent. Soon, he began joining my evening strolls. I even started wearing flat shoes so our heights wouldnt be so mismatched, though Philip didn’t seem fazed in the least by it, nor by his gleaming bald crown. I realised his charm lay in his deep, resonant voiceId never heard anything like it in a man. Somehow, I found myself caught in a carefully laid net.

Within days, Philip and I were attending the evening dances together and venturing into the local town for fruit. He even tried to tempt me to visit his room numerous times, but I stood my groundunmoved.

Then, on the eve before departure, Philip said gently, Harri, were leaving tomorrow. Fancy popping round for a cuppa in my room this evening?

Ill think about it, I replied vaguely.

That last night, I didnt want to disappoint him and agreed to go, knowing where it would lead.

The table was set beautifully with all sorts of delicious treats. Hes certainly borrowed half the cutlery from the dining hall, I thought, amused. With a flourish, he presented a bottle of Prosecco.

Shall we? Philip said, his voice tinged with sadness. I dont know how Ill bear parting from you tomorrow. Give me your addressplease. I promise Ill come visit.

Youll forget all about me by the second daymen always do. So, what are we drinking to, Phil? I asked, resigned but somehow ready.

For love, Harri, to love itself! he said, raising his glass.

The next morning, I woke with Philips arms around me. Goodness, why had I resisted so long? Why didnt I simply give in from the first week? All that wasted time! I felt like a young girl falling in love all over again. But now, it was time to pack up and leave.

I bid farewell to Emily, who sat on her bed, weeping bitterly.

Whats wrong, Em? I asked gently.

Im pregnant, Harriet. I dont even know for sure who the father is, she sobbed.

Was it the entertainer? I tried to clarify.

I met someone else as well Hes from the lodge next door. But hes married, Emily admitted, squeezing the tissues in her hand.

Oh, Emily. Call your parents. Let them come help. And for now, lets speak to the retreat manager. Perhaps theyll know something useful, I said, trying to comfort her.

Emily ran from the room in tears. Poor girl, shed learned the hard way about flirtatious charmers.

I finished packing. I really didnt want to go. After twenty-four days, everything had become so dearly familiarespecially Philip.

The coach arrived, Philip waiting for me, a small bunch of bluebells in hand. Tears welled in my eyes as I embraced him warmly. So it endsa fleeting romance. My heart ached. If Philip had asked, Id have dropped everything to stay.

Philip and I lived in different cities. The only way to keep in touch was by post. And then I received a letternot from him, but from his wife. She claimed to know everything between us. She told me that nothing could come of itshe was thirty, I was forty. There was nothing to say in reply. Why bother?

Half a year later, Philip showed up at my door quite out of the blue. My sons looked at him with surprise but remained polite.

Philip? Are you just passing through? I couldnt help but hope hed say, Ive come backfor good.

Not really Can I come in, Harri? Philip hesitated, standing awkwardly in the hall.

My sons quietly slipped off to their rooms.

Well, what brings you here? Delivering another letter from your wife? I asked, teasingly.

Forgive me, Harri. I wrote to you, but my wife intercepted it. Thats on me. Im sorry. Were divorced now, he confessed.

I didnt know you were married. Nothing would have happened had I known, you must believe me. So, now what? I was unsure where this was leading.

Lets get married, Harriet, Philip said, suddenly.

Im not sure. Ive got my sons, as you see. I cant decide on a whim, I wavered, though I was secretly pleased.

Children are wonderful. I have a daughter, Eleanorshes ten, Philip added, surprising me.

You left your daughter? I asked in shock.

No, no, how could you think that? Ill have Eleanor live with us. Her mums taken to drink. We could all be a family, he replied, matter-of-factly.

Hold on, Phil. I dont even know your daughter, and youre already appointing me as her mum. Arent you rushing things a bit? Give me time to think. Ill talk to my sons. And nowlets get you some food, you cheeky bridegroom, I smiled.

A peaceful family wasnt as easily conjured as Philip hoped. We had our quarrels, our departures, and our awkward momentsour natures too different. Not everyone can take a step back in an argument.

Time, as always, rushed by.

My older son Andrew and Eleanor ended up falling in love and marrying each other. After the wedding, they grew distant from Philip and me, bringing up old grudges and insisting neither household should have ever been broken up. Andrew and Eleanor moved out to a rented place, leaving just the two of us, shaking our headsbut still in love.

A year passed.

The runaway children didnt visit, though Eleanor would ring Philip once a year for his birthday.

Some three years later, we received an invitation to visit Andrew and Eleanor. Tentatively, we went.

It turned out they had a baby boyour grandson, together. The happiness in that moment was indescribable. Around the family table, Andrew and Eleanor apologised, saying, We get it nowlife throws things at you. Learning to forgive is vital. And honouring your parents toothey gave us life. Thats why we named our son Frederick, for peace. Let there be peace in the family.

Thats how Philip and I found our newly-born happiness.

And so, Ive learnt that life rarely goes by the book. The pain of loss, the joys of renewal, and even the wounds of family can transform into something beautifulso long as we are brave enough to forgive, to love, and to start again.

“Button? I called her Holly. She was running about all morning, obviously lost – then curled up at my feet. So I tucked her in the car to keep her warm, the poor thing,” the man smiled… “Tammy, how can you be so unlucky? How many times have I told you, Vicky’s not the right one for you!” her mother scolded Tamara. She stood, head bowed, and though she’d just turned thirty-seven, she felt like a schoolgirl who’d brought home a failing grade. Tamara’s heart ached for herself, her failed marriage, and her little daughter—especially now, with the magic of Christmas around the corner, and no father in their home. “I’m leaving you,” Victor muttered carelessly that evening. Tamara stared blankly, not comprehending, as she set down a fragrant bowl of stew. “Where are you going?” she asked automatically. Victor rolled his eyes, “You just don’t get serious things, Tammy. And that yappy dog of yours, and our daughter’s always ill. No romance, no spark. Just look at yourself! What have you become?” And with that, he began packing his bags. Sensing trouble, their little dog Button circled Tamara’s feet, whining to comfort her. “At least now I’ll finally get some rest from her barking,” Victor called from the door, hoisting his duffle. “But what about Eva?” Tamara whispered, imagining how their five-year-old would be devastated. “Sort it out, you’re her mother, after all!” he replied, and left to Button’s howls. Tamara sat at the kitchen table all night, clutching the dog, who licked her face gently, as if to say she understood something terrible was happening. For days, Tamara hid the truth from her mother and dodged questions about her job search. But finally, her mother visited—and Tamara broke down, admitting Victor had left days prior and the job offers weren’t coming. Her mother scowled, “It was obvious from the start: five years together, a child, and he never married you!” Still, she promised to help look after Eva when needed, though she’d never liked Button—the street pup Tamara had once rescued. Another week passed. Tamara started work at Eva’s nursery; Eva was delighted, but worried, “Mum, can we take Button too? Gran grumbles about walking her—maybe Button could guard us during nap time and help you wash dishes!” Eva beamed. Tamara would laugh and hug her daughter, though Eva’s next question always stung: “Mummy, will Daddy be home for Christmas?” Not wanting to break the truth, Tamara invented a business trip. Victor, when reached, urged her not to disturb his new ‘private life,’ and suggested she tell Eva he was a ‘super-spy on a top-secret mission.’ As New Year’s Eve crept closer, Tamara dreaded the holiday alone, unsure how to explain everything to Eva. One day, Eva’s grandmother took her to the doctor after she’d caught a cold. Around the corner, they bumped into Victor. “Daddy! You’re back!” Eva cried—but he awkwardly explained that he wouldn’t be living with them anymore and hurried away. That night, Eva’s temperature rose, and she stopped speaking, eating, or drinking. The doctor blamed stress. Then, another blow: Gran lost Button while walking her, accidentally letting her slip away without a leash. Eva stubbornly refused to eat, vowing, “I’ll only have dinner when Button comes back.” Tamara searched the streets every evening, growing desperate. On New Year’s Eve, with Eva still sick and heartbroken over her missing friend and absent father, Tamara tried to comfort her: “There’s no big tree, sweetheart, but we’ve got each other…” But Eva sobbed, “We need a real Christmas tree. Then Button will come home—just like in my dream!” Unable to afford a fresh tree, Tamara bundled up and dashed out into the snowy dusk. Passing cheerful families, she barely noticed them—frantically calling for Button, scouring every street. She stumbled upon a nearly empty Christmas tree lot. The last tree was unsold, guarded by a burly man in an old winter coat. “Last one left—two-for-one if you want it!” he called out. Flustered, Tamara admitted she couldn’t afford a tree, but dared to ask for leftover branches. The man, moved by her sad story, offered the branches—and then, impulsively, loaded the final tree onto his van, insisting on delivering it for free. When she climbed into the van, Tamara gasped—there on the seat, Button slept, snug in a woolly jumper. “Button? I called her Holly. She was running about lost this morning, then curled up at my feet. Couldn’t let the poor thing freeze, so I took her in,” the man smiled kindly. He introduced himself as Paul—a fellow animal lover, recently heartbroken himself. Soon, Tamara’s home felt unusually warm and bright—not least because of the kindness of strangers, the reunion with Button, and maybe, just maybe, a bit of everyday Christmas magic. Nobody can say exactly how it happened—but what’s certain is this: Tamara, Eva, and sometimes even Gran, called their little dog both Button and Holly from that day on. And a new family found happiness, when it once seemed lost.

LOVING WITH PATIENCE, ENDURING WITH LOVE John and Mary had a church wedding. On the day of the ceremony, as the wedding procession neared the church, a wild summer storm sprang up out of nowhere and tore Mary’s veil from her head. The veil soared skyward like a balloon, whirled about, then dropped, exhausted, into a muddy puddle. All the guests gasped in shock. The storm vanished as swiftly as it arrived. John dashed for the veil but could not reach it in time. The once-snowy veil now lay in a black puddle. In distress, Mary called to her groom, “John, don’t pick it up. I’m not wearing that veil!” The local old ladies outside the church began to mutter, warning: with such a sign, storms and troubles would follow the couple’s lives… A fake white flower was hastily pinned in Mary’s hair from the nearest shop—there was no time to find a new veil. One does not keep one’s own wedding waiting! The bride and groom stood together, candles in hand, pledging their vows before God at the altar. But before the sacred ceremony, John and Mary had already signed papers at the registry office and celebrated with a beautiful reception. That, as Mary told herself, was for people. Three years later, their home rang with the laughter of two children: little Sophie and Arthur. Life flowed along peacefully. But a decade on, a knock came at John and Mary’s door. Mary, ever the gracious hostess, welcomed all—invited or otherwise—offering a warm meal, a cup of tea, and a listening ear. This particular guest, however, was different. She arrived when John was out. Mary’s eyes sized up the stranger immediately: well-built, beautiful, young, and polite. “Hello Mary,” she introduced herself. “I’m Emily. I’m… I’m to be your husband’s future wife.” “How fascinating!” Mary replied in surprise. “And how long has John been your fiancé?” Mary pressed on with the odd conversation. “A long while. But I can’t wait any longer. John and I are expecting a child,” Emily reported, entirely unfazed. “Hmm… A textbook saga—wife, mistress, illegitimate child… Do you know John and I are church-wed? We have children,” Mary tried to reason. “I know everything. But John and I have true love! Forever too! You could annul the marriage. He’s not faithful. I asked my priest; it’s allowed,” Emily insisted. “Well, young lady, I sincerely advise you not to interfere in another’s marriage! We’ll handle our own love and loyalty,” Mary said, now irritated. “Good day.” Emily shrugged—“I warned you”—and hastily left. Mary slammed the door, furious: “She’s done her research… not getting my John!” She couldn’t help recalling how John had seemed different lately—longer hours at work, sudden business trips, a newfound interest in fishing… All classic signs. Women always sense a rival’s shadow. But Mary forced the dark thoughts away; perhaps it was her imagination, and John was guiltless. That evening, when John got home, Mary fed him well before broaching the uncomfortable topic. “John, are you in love?” she began, struggling with the words. “I am,” John confirmed, tense. “Your… sweetheart came by today. Is it serious?” Mary dreaded his answer. “I’m a scoundrel! I can’t live without Emily! I tried to break it off but failed! Let me go, Mary!” John begged. “You’re free…” Mary replied softly, realizing appeals to conscience or the children would be pointless. Life would decide. John moved out to be with his beloved. Mary sought comfort, and advice, from her vicar. “My daughter, love suffers long and never fails—remember the words of Scripture. You have the right to annul the marriage, for your husband has fallen into sinful lust. Or you may forgive, pray, and wait for his return. The Lord works in mysterious ways…” Two months later, Mary discovered she was pregnant—John’s child. She felt it was a sign that, in time, John would repent and return. A baby boy was born; Mary’s mother suggested naming him Jack—an English John. “Maybe your John will find his way home—miracles happen,” her mother smiled, helping care for all the children with devotion. John never forgot Sophie or Arthur—he spoiled them, took them on seaside holidays, sent Mary money by envelope. Mary forbade the kids from telling him about baby Jack, but of course, children never obey. Sophie blurted out the secret on a visit; John, believing Mary had moved on, felt a pang for his old, happy life—not imagining Jack was his own son. Meanwhile, Emily was in hospital on bedrest. John flitted between bringing fruit and hunting for “tasty” chalk to quell her cravings for calcium. Tragedy struck: Emily gave birth to a stillborn daughter, then later suffered a miscarriage. Devastated, Emily longed for a pause before another child, but fate had other plans. John doted on her, feeling deep guilt for their suffering. Back at Mary’s, her former university friend David began visiting. He’d courted her years ago, but she’d always found him too picky, too serious, too much a mama’s boy. When she met John, David was resigned to his fate. One rainy autumn day, Mary met David on the bus. He sensed her sadness, and she invited him round. Over a hearty dinner, she poured out every sorrow. He listened quietly, with understanding. Mary pecked him on the cheek for his sympathy—David, still single and childless, became a regular guest, bringing treats for the children and flowers for Mary. Mary laid firm boundaries: “Come by as you please, but I’m waiting for my husband. No funny business.” Even friendship was happiness to David; he called her his honorary sister, the children, his nieces and nephew. Time passed, and change returned to John’s new family: Emily finally gave birth to a healthy daughter—Grace. Emily was swept into motherhood, but couldn’t forget her conversation with Mary. Stolen happiness is always tinged with bitterness. Only after Grace’s birth did she truly understand the pain she’d caused. She wanted to fall at Mary’s feet and beg forgiveness. John adored baby Grace—spoiling her, comforting her through the nights, cherishing every moment. Years flowed by. Five years later, Emily grew gravely ill at just thirty. John was frantic: hospitals, doctors, expensive treatments. Nothing helped—Emily was dying. Preparing herself for the end, she had just one last wish: “Take me to your first wife, please,” she whispered to John. Mary had heard the news—from Sophie, who still visited her dad. Mary agreed at once. John carried Emily, weak as a whisper, into the house. The whole family gathered, waiting for an explanation. “Leave us, please,” Emily asked quietly. Mary sat beside her on the bed. “Forgive me, if you can, Mary. This is God’s punishment. I beg you—please take Grace as your own. I have only John, and you. Promise you’ll raise her alongside John,” Emily pleaded desperately, tears streaming. Mary gently squeezed her hand. “Emily, it’s not God’s punishment—it’s our own doing. I forgave you long ago. Don’t worry about Grace—we won’t abandon her. Stay here, with John. My house is big enough for everyone. You’ll get better—believe me, with God all things are possible! Don’t despair.” So Emily stayed, the house swelling like a fairy-tale cottage, everyone finding a place. David, tender since the moment he met Emily, was her greatest support. Gradually, without realising, he fell in love with Emily, adoring Grace as if she were his own. Emily fought to recover. Driven by hope, by Mary’s kindness, and by David’s gentle presence, she slowly regained strength. In time, Emily announced at dinner: “Mary, John, Grace and I—and David—will be moving out. Thank you for everything—for your love, your home, your hearts. I have never met such people! I never will again. Thank you.” John and Mary exchanged looks; they knew that love was blossoming between David and Emily. Earlier, John had made a confession to Mary: “Mary, whatever happens, I want to come back to you, to raise our three children together. Please, take me back. I’ll beg, if I must!” “Do you even need to ask?” Mary replied, embracing her prodigal husband. “But what about Grace?” Mary worried. “She’s my daughter. I’ll never turn her away. My home will always be open to her,” John promised. As David, Emily, and Grace prepared to leave, Emily pulled John aside: “Love Mary, John—love her more than life. Don’t ever hurt her. I’ll remember you always.” “Be happy, Emily,” John replied.

I was eight years old when my mum left home. She walked to the corner, hailed a cab, and never came back. My brother was five. Everything changed after that. Dad began doing things he’d never done before: waking up early to cook breakfast, learning how to do laundry, ironing school uniforms, fumbling through brushing our hair before we left for school. I watched him misjudge rice portions, burn meals, forget to separate whites from coloured clothes in the wash. But somehow we never went without. He came home tired from work and helped with homework, signed our exercise books, and made lunchboxes for the next day. Mum never came to visit. Dad never brought another woman home, never introduced anyone as his partner. We knew he went out and sometimes got back late, but his personal life stayed outside our walls. There was only me and my brother. I never heard him say he’d fallen in love again. His routine was work, come home, cook, wash, sleep, repeat. On weekends he took us to the park, the river, the shopping centre—even if it was just to window-shop. He learnt how to braid hair, sew on buttons, and make packed lunches. When we needed costumes for school plays, he fashioned them from cardboard and old fabric. He never complained. Never said, “This isn’t my job.” A year ago, Dad passed away—it happened quickly, with no chance for long goodbyes. While sorting through his things, I found old notebooks: lists of household expenses, important dates, reminders like “pay the school fee,” “buy shoes,” “take the girl to the doctor.” No love letters, no photos with another woman, no sign of a romantic life. Just the traces of a man who lived for his children. Since he’s been gone, one question won’t leave me alone: Was he happy? My mum left to find her own happiness. Dad stayed and, it seemed, gave up his own. He never rebuilt a family. Never had a home with a partner. Never again became a priority for anyone but us. Now I realise what an incredible father I had. But I also see that he was a man who stayed alone so that we wouldn’t be. And that weighs heavy. Because now he’s gone, I wonder if he ever received the love he deserved.

Natalie, You’ve Been Gone for Five Years—You Never Cared How I Was or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben didn’t earn much—his salary was rather modest, as he was an ordinary labourer. Natalie always dreamed of a comfortable, or even better, wealthy life, so she was thrilled whenever she met men more successful than her husband. One day, Natalie had incredible luck—she caught the eye of a wealthy businessman who promised her a fortune. She fell for his grand promises and left her poor husband to start a new life. Ben was devastated by his wife’s decision. He pleaded with his beloved, begging her not to leave. He promised her everything would change, that he’d work harder, switch jobs, work day and night if he had to, just to make her happy. But Natalie was unmoved—she was already dreaming of sailing white yachts and shopping in Europe’s finest boutiques. Her poor husband could never afford such luxuries. No vow of love or promise could persuade her. Five years later, now thirty-two, Natalie’s rich benefactor lost interest in her amidst a crowd of younger, more alluring women. He told Natalie she was too demanding and quarrelsome, and he lost all affection for her. Having no way to support herself in London, never having had a job in her life, Natalie decided to return to her ex-husband. After all, hadn’t he sworn eternal love and said his heart belonged to her forever? Surely he would be waiting for her. As Natalie approached the flat where she once lived, she heard footsteps and saw a woman open the door, holding a small girl. “Darling, we’ve talked about not opening the door alone,” the woman gently chided the child. “Can I help you?” she asked. Natalie stood speechless on the doorstep. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” Natalie stammered, confused and uncertain. “Ben, someone’s here asking for you! What’s your name?” the woman called for Natalie’s ex-husband, then glanced back at the guest. “Natalie!” Ben said in surprise, then turned to the woman. “Love, could you go inside? I need to talk.” “Who was that?” Natalie asked in astonishment, watching as the woman carried the little girl away. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and in her arms is our daughter, Emily,” Ben replied. “You’re married? You have a daughter? You swore you would never love anyone the way you loved me!” “So many years have passed since that day! I was heartbroken at first, but then I realised life doesn’t end when someone leaves. That’s when I met Olivia, fell completely in love, and she made me happy. She gave me a daughter.” “And me? What about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone for five years and never cared how I was or what became of me. You ran after someone else’s money, and all you wanted was wealth and a lavish life. We may never have been rich, but that doesn’t excuse what you did. And now you’ve come back? Did you expect me to sit and wait for you all this time?” “I was foolish! I still love you!” “Natalie, enough of this act. Please go. I don’t need you, and I don’t want to see you. Your boyfriend dumped you, and that’s the only reason you’re here? It makes me sick. Please, just go.” Natalie burst into tears, consumed by her heartbreak and the pain of not being wanted, while Ben was glad to have finally moved on and found happiness—achieving closure and a sense of vindication.