Twelve years later, he came back… But I wasn’t the same woman who once cried into his shoulder.
— There’s no embryo.
The doctor looked away and quietly closed the folder with the test results. — Rest for a year, then we’ll try again.
In that moment, everything blurred before Louise’s eyes. So much pain, injections, tests, surgeries… Months of hope, fear, and prayers—all for nothing. Even IVF, which had cost them a fortune, hadn’t given her the chance to be a mother. Not just a chance—a dream. One she’d carried since she was twenty. She stood, thanked the doctor, walked into the hallway, pulled out her phone, and silently sent the same message to everyone close to her:
*Please don’t call. I need time.*
When she got home, she didn’t even take off her coat. She just curled up on the sofa and fell asleep. Not crying—there were no tears left.
Geoffrey was there. Yes, he held her hand, brought her water, wiped her forehead, offered his shoulder. But there was no fire in his eyes. He’d never truly wanted children. He didn’t understand why she tortured herself, why she kept climbing that mountain of pain, knowing she might fall again.
A year passed. And she tried once more. They made a second attempt. The doctors implanted two embryos this time, saying it would improve the odds. And then—a miracle. Both took.
Louise was afraid to breathe. She slept propped up, never lifted her arms above her shoulders, whispered to the babies, cradled her belly, shutting out the world. Her face glowed. She was scared to believe, but her heart sang.
Then, at an ultrasound, the doctor looked up and smiled.
— Congratulations. You’re having three. One of the embryos split.
Louise sobbed. From joy. From fear. From gratitude to the heavens. She’d never dreamed of triplets—one would’ve been enough… But now there were three, and she loved each one already.
Geoffrey, though, turned pale. He said nothing. Just walked out of the room. After that, he started coming home late, snapping at her, vanishing on “business trips.” Her happiness didn’t bring him joy—only irritation. And she refused to see it. Couldn’t. Three tiny lives were growing inside her, and for them, she’d endure anything.
The birth was difficult. A cesarean, doctors fighting to save her. But in the end, three beautiful babies entered the world—two girls and a boy. They were perfect. And that was the moment Geoffrey… disappeared.
He didn’t come to take them home. His phone was switched off. Later, she found out—he’d gone to Manchester, packed his things while she was in the hospital. He’d waited, hoping the babies wouldn’t survive, that she’d break. When he realized they were thriving, he ran. He never wanted children. He never wanted the responsibility.
Louise was terrified. Three cribs, three cries, three tiny voices—and only her mother beside her. Those first weeks, her mother saved her. Without her, she wouldn’t have made it.
Years passed. The children grew. The girls—Emily and Sophie—were as different as night and day, but both brilliant. The boy—James—took on the role of “man of the house” from childhood. Louise worked nights, holidays, went without sleep for days, but never regretted it. She was a mother. And that was enough.
Twelve years later. The children had grown. James was in college; the girls in secondary school. Louise taught at a music academy, took online gigs. They lived modestly but happily. Laughter filled the house, the kettle always boiling, meals cooked for everyone.
And then… he reappeared.
Geoffrey.
Grey, aged, eyes dull. He came. Called. Stood at the door, head bowed.
— I know what I did… But I’ve got no one. My wife left. No children. I’m alone. Please… Just let me talk.
Louise stood silent. Behind her, in the doorway, James stood—no longer a boy but a tall young man with steady eyes. Sophie held the cat close, Emily quietly poured tea.
— I’m sorry… I want to come back.
She smiled. Softly. Calmly.
— You should’ve come back then. When we needed you. When the babies cried at night and I could barely stand from the pain. When I sobbed from exhaustion. We didn’t wait for you. And we’re not waiting now.
He opened his mouth, but James stepped out, shielding his mother.
— Leave, sir. You’re nobody here. We’re the family.
Geoffrey walked away. Slowly. And likely, for good.
That night, for the first time in years, Louise didn’t cry. She just sat with her children at the kitchen table, brewed tea, and said:
— Thank you. You’re my life. My victory. My happiness.
And she meant every word. Sometimes, the greatest love isn’t the one you fight for—it’s the one you build from the pieces left behind.