Fifteen years. Fifteen years of unanswered questions, grief, and the relentless weight of raising our son, Noah, alone. Lisa had vanished the day she went to pick up diapers for our newborn—and never returned. No note. No explanation. Just silence that carved a hollow space in my life.
Then, one ordinary afternoon, everything changed.
I was pushing a cart through the supermarket aisles when I froze. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light—or maybe my mind playing cruel games—but no. There she was. Same posture. Same tilt of her head as she read a label. My heart stopped. Lisa.
I stepped closer, trembling. “Lisa?” I whispered.
She turned, eyes widening in shock. “Bryan?” Her voice was faint, disbelieving, like she’d just walked out of a memory she’d tried to bury.
Time froze.
Outside, in the cold quiet of the parking lot, she began to speak. She told me everything—how overwhelmed she felt that day, how young, scared, and unprepared she had been. How she’d bought a plane ticket to Europe and vanished into a new identity, a life where no one depended on her, a life where she could breathe.
My emotions collided: anger, disbelief, heartbreak. How could she leave a baby, leave me, leave everything?
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