My heart stopped. That scar belonged to Michael — my ex, the man I once loved and feared. I’d fled from him years ago, pregnant and broken after Lisa, my best friend, claimed he’d betrayed me. But now, Harry’s story reopened a door I thought was sealed. When Michael arrived at our doorstep, eyes glassy with emotion, the truth unraveled: Lisa had lied — out of jealousy, out of spite.
In the quiet days that followed, Michael stayed close, rebuilding gently. Harry laughed more, slept better. One evening, beneath the porch light, I whispered, “Maybe I ran from the wrong person.” Michael looked at me, voice steady: “We lost years. Let’s not lose more.” And in that fragile peace — with our son’s laughter echoing inside — I saw a second chance I never knew we’d get.
