**A Twist of Fate: Veronica’s New Life**
I was frying chicken cutlets in the kitchen when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Wiping my hands on my apron, I hurried to answer. Standing on the doorstep were two strangers—a man and a woman, older but composed, their expressions guarded.
“Are you Veronica?” the woman spoke first, offering a polite nod. “We’re Nicholas’s parents. May we come in?”
The name struck me like a blow. Nicholas—the man who’d once promised me love, then abandoned me the moment he learned I was pregnant. I froze for a second but nodded, stepping aside to let them in.
Over tea, the conversation unfolded slowly. The couple spoke of their son with such tenderness, as if he were a saint. It was hard to listen—I’d never forgotten the betrayal. Just as I was about to ask them to leave, the woman hesitated, then said, “Please understand. There are so many liars and frauds these days. We don’t doubt you, but… 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.”
I agreed. When the results confirmed Nicholas’s paternity, they returned with gifts—toys, clothes, an envelope with £5,000. But that wasn’t the end.
A week later, they called. At our next meeting, they handed me paperwork—a small flat, empty and in need of work, but now mine and my son’s. A gift. A surprise. A fresh start.
Tears filled my eyes as I stood in that bare apartment. A worn sofa, peeling wallpaper, a dim ceiling light—but it was ours. I opened the windows, letting in fresh air and hope.
How different it had all begun.
Three years ago, I’d moved to London, renting a room from a strict old woman and working at a corner shop. Alone, struggling, but dreaming. Then I met Nicholas—tall, strong, with a confident smile. For a moment, I thought I’d found happiness.
But when I told him I was pregnant, he became a stranger in an instant. “You’re mad. A child? That’s not mine. Get rid of it.” Then he left.
I cried all night. The landlady listened, sighed, then said, “If you keep it, you can stay. If you don’t, find somewhere else. I won’t have that under my roof.”
So I stayed. I had my son. I worked. I lived—all for him.
Then, one day, the old woman disappeared. That evening, she confessed, “I found Nicholas’s parents. Went to see them. He’s dead, love… and they never knew about you.” That night, I cried quietly, realizing that despite everything, some part of me had never stopped loving him.
Two weeks later, his parents rang my doorbell.
Now, everything’s changed. The flat may be old, but it’s ours. The landlady, now a true grandmother in every way, greets us with warm scones. I work remotely and part-time at a bakery. My son grows happier every day.
Standing by the window, cradling a warm mug, I smile.
“Grandma, when can we visit you again?”
“Soon, darling. Very soon.”
Sometimes life takes unexpected turns. The trick is to keep moving forward.
