When I married Wyatt, I thought I was stepping into a fairytale. He was charming, spontaneous, and full of grand ideas. He made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. At least, that’s what I believed.
But charm doesn’t keep a marriage afloat. In less than a year, the whirlwind turned into a storm. Lies, betrayals, and late-night whispers that weren’t meant for me. I found out about his infidelity, and just like that, everything shattered.
Our divorce was quick and cold. No kids. No shared assets. Just broken promises and an empty bank account. Wyatt left me drowning in legal bills while he moved on without a second thought.
I relocated to a tiny apartment on the outskirts of town, took a second job at my lawyer’s firm just to stay afloat. Honestly, I think he hired me out of pity. I canceled every unnecessary expense, worked late nights, and came home to silence. It was exhausting. Lonely. Every day felt like an uphill battle, but I refused to crumble.
Then, one freezing afternoon, a package arrived at my door.
No name. No return address.
Inside was a set of keys and a note with an address, a date, and a time. The courier had disappeared before I could ask anything.
I held the keys tightly, my heart racing. Could it be Wyatt? Was this some last-minute attempt at closure?
Desperate for answers, I followed the address. It led me to a luxurious high-rise apartment downtown—the kind of place I once dreamed about. The key slid smoothly into the lock, and when I stepped inside, I saw someone waiting for me.
It wasn’t Wyatt.
It was Jill—my ex-mother-in-law. She sat on a pristine white sofa, her pearls shining under the warm light. She smiled, but it felt more like a performance than a welcome.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, motioning for me to sit.
“What is this?” I asked, holding up the keys.
“This apartment is my gift to you,” she said smoothly. “Of all the women my son has been with, you were the best. The most deserving.”
My stomach tightened. Jill wasn’t known for her generosity. Something about this felt wrong.
“On one condition,” she added.
Of course.
“A grandson,” she said, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world.
I froze. “What?”
Jill tilted her head, her expression calm and businesslike. “Wyatt is my only child. I doubt he’ll ever settle down. I need a grandchild to carry on the family name. You, Emilia, are my best option.”
I let out a stunned laugh. “We’re divorced, Jill. We don’t even talk anymore! He doesn’t know where I live!”
Jill waved away my words. “Just call him. Tell him you miss him, invite him here for a romantic evening. Once my grandson arrives, I’ll take care of everything. You’ll never have to struggle again.”
I swallowed hard. “And if it’s a granddaughter?”
Her expression didn’t flicker. “Then, my dear, you will try again.”
I stared at her, horrified. She didn’t see me as a person. Just a tool. A means to an end. The thought of being with Wyatt again made my skin crawl.
“No,” I said firmly.
Jill’s polished exterior cracked, her eyes narrowing. “Think carefully. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“I have thought carefully,” I replied, standing up. “I’d rather struggle than sell my soul to you.”
I dropped the keys on the table and walked out. Jill’s voice followed me, but I didn’t look back.
The next two years were the hardest of my life—but also the most rewarding. I poured myself into my work, staying late, proving my worth. One of the senior partners noticed my dedication and took me under his wing. The late nights, the exhaustion, the sacrifices—they all paid off. I was promoted to head of client relations, earning a solid paycheck and a corner office. But more than anything, I had pride.
It was at the firm that I met Daniel.
He was an associate attorney—kind, funny, steady. He knew all about my past with Wyatt, but he never pitied me. Instead, he admired how I had clawed my way back up.
“I mean it, Emilia,” he said one evening over coffee. “I saw that kind of marriage firsthand. My mom never had the strength to leave my dad. But you? You walked away and built something better.”
Our first date was simple—just coffee after work. But by the third, I knew he was the real deal. A year later, we got married. And a year after that, we welcomed our son, Ethan.
Holding him in my arms, I whispered to Daniel, “I’ve waited for this little boy for decades. But I always knew it wasn’t going to be with Wyatt.”
Ethan became the center of our world.
One winter morning, I was walking through the park, pushing Ethan’s stroller while Daniel jogged ahead. The air smelled of snow, the bare trees casting long shadows on the path.
As I paused by a bench to adjust Ethan’s blanket, I spotted a woman sitting a few feet away. She was crying, her face buried in her hands.
Jill.
She looked older, wearier. Her expensive pearls were gone, replaced by a simple sweater and slacks. Papers had slipped from her lap, scattered at her feet.
I hesitated, then instinct took over. I reached into the diaper bag, pulled out some napkins, and walked over.
“Here,” I said gently, holding them out.
Jill looked up, startled. Her gaze flickered to the stroller, landing on Ethan’s chubby, smiling face. Something between longing and bitterness flashed across her expression.
“Thank you,” she muttered, taking the napkins. I bent down to gather the papers and handed them back.
She sighed. “I’ve been sitting here for hours. Sometimes, it’s the only place I can think. Your child is beautiful.”
I said nothing.
“Wyatt married again,” she blurted out. “It didn’t last. Three months in, she took him for everything. Now he has nothing. He came crawling back to me. I spent every penny keeping him afloat.”
Her shoulders shook as she wept.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. And despite everything, I meant it.
We talked for a while—about life, about Ethan—before Jill stood.
“You could have given me a grandson after all,” she murmured. “He’s lovely.”
And with that, she walked away, her back hunched against the cold.
A few minutes later, Daniel jogged up to me, his cheeks flushed. He kissed me and scooped Ethan out of the stroller, making him giggle.
“Ready to go home?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, slipping my arm through his. “Always.”
Together, we strolled away, leaving the past behind us—right where it belonged.
