Fifteen years ago, Lisa kissed our newborn son, Noah, and left to buy diapers. She never returned. No phone, no note—just vanished. I searched, hoped, grieved. The police found no leads. Eventually, they gave up. But I couldn’t. I became both father and mother, raising Noah alone while haunted by questions: Did she die? Did she leave us?
Then last week, in a supermarket aisle, I saw her. Older, grayer—but unmistakably Lisa. I called her name. She turned, stunned. “Bryan?” she whispered. I demanded answers. She asked for forgiveness.
Outside, in the parking lot, she confessed: she’d fled to Europe, helped by her parents who disapproved of our marriage. She’d changed her name, built a career, and returned hoping to reconnect. “I have money now,” she said. “I can give Noah the life he deserves.”
But I couldn’t forget the sleepless nights, the lonely years, the pain she left behind. “You don’t get to rewrite the past,” I told her. “Noah and I moved on. We don’t need you anymore.”
I walked away.
