Fifteen years ago, my wife Lisa kissed our baby boy, Noah, on the forehead, grabbed her purse, and said she was heading out for diapers.
She never came back.
The police investigated, but there were no leads—her phone went silent, her bank accounts untouched. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. Eventually, they told me she was probably gone forever. Still, I never truly accepted it.
I raised Noah alone, juggling sleepless nights and long workdays while carrying the weight of her disappearance. Over time, I stopped hoping for answers and focused on giving him a stable, happy life. Now he’s fifteen—tall, bright, and full of life.
Then last week, everything changed.
In the supermarket’s frozen food aisle, I saw her. Lisa. Older, with shorter hair—but unmistakably her. When she turned and saw me, her confidence cracked.
“I was hoping you’d never see me again,” she said.
Later, she asked me to meet her at the old railway station. There, she revealed the truth: the day she left, a man threatened our lives, forcing her to disappear to protect us. She’d stayed away all these years out of fear—and watched Noah grow from a distance.
Now the man is dead. She wants to come home.
That night, I told Noah his mother was alive.
When she knocked on the door, he froze. After a long silence, he whispered, “I don’t know if I forgive you… but I want to hear more.”
And just like that, a new beginning began.
