Nancy’s world shattered the day they buried Patrick. The man she’d loved for twenty years — the one who always kissed her forehead before leaving for work — was gone. The car accident had been brutal, instant. Yet even a week later, she could still smell his aftershave on the pillow, still half expect his voice calling from the hallway.
She stood at the cemetery’s edge, the last mourner to leave. Her black dress clung damply to her skin in the drizzle. With a sigh, she turned toward the gate — ready, or at least pretending to be, to face a life without him.
That’s when she saw her.
An older woman stood in her path, clutching a crying baby swaddled in a pink blanket. Her eyes were red, tired, but determined.
“Are you Nancy?” the woman asked.
Nancy nodded warily.
“My name is Amanda,” the woman said. “This baby… she’s Patrick’s daughter.”
Nancy froze. “What are you talking about?”
Amanda’s voice trembled. “Her mother can’t care for her anymore. You’re the only one who can.”
Nancy’s heart pounded. She stepped back, shaking her head. “No. That’s impossible. Patrick was a good man — he’d never…”
She couldn’t finish. Her throat tightened as tears burned behind her eyes. Turning away, she muttered, “You’re mistaken,” and stormed off toward her car.
Halfway there, she bumped into Mike, one of Patrick’s old friends. “Whoa, Nancy — I’m so sorry about everything,” he said softly. She managed a tight smile, exchanged a few words, and hurried on.
But when she opened her car door, her breath caught in her throat.
The baby — the same baby — was lying on her back seat, crying.
Nancy spun around. The cemetery was empty. Amanda was gone.
She looked down at the child, her instincts battling disbelief. The baby’s tiny face scrunched up as she wailed. Without thinking, Nancy took off her jacket and wrapped it around her. That’s when she saw it — a small, crescent-shaped birthmark on the baby’s neck.
Just like Patrick’s.
Nancy’s blood ran cold. “It can’t be,” she whispered. But she needed the truth.
At the hospital, she handed over Patrick’s hair from his old brush and the baby’s saliva sample. “I want a paternity test,” she told the receptionist.
“Results take a few days,” the woman said.
“I’ll pay for it to be rushed.”
Hours later, Nancy sat in the sterile hallway, rocking the baby gently. She’d bought formula and diapers from a nearby store, her heart tightening with every small cry. When the nurse finally appeared with the envelope, Nancy’s hands shook.
She tore it open.
Paternity rate: 99%.
Her chest caved in. “Oh, Patrick,” she whispered. “Why?”
She wanted to find the baby’s mother, return her, erase the evidence of betrayal. But as she searched through Patrick’s belongings — drawers, boxes, files — there was nothing. Finally, she sat in his car, grief simmering into determination.
Then she noticed the GPS.
Patrick never went anywhere without it. She opened the “Recent Destinations” list. Among the usual addresses — work, restaurants — one location appeared again and again. A small house outside town.
“This must be it,” Nancy whispered.
She drove there. The house was quiet, its windows dark. She knocked — once, twice, ten times. No answer.
She tried the house next door. A familiar voice greeted her. “Nancy?”
Amanda.
Nancy’s jaw dropped. “You? You live here?”
Amanda sighed. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I wanted to find my husband’s other woman. To return the baby,” Nancy said flatly.
Amanda’s expression softened with grief. “The woman next door—Emma—died a few days ago. A heart attack, right after hearing about Patrick’s accident.”
Nancy’s knees weakened. “Emma… Emma Warren?”
Amanda nodded slowly.
Nancy’s heart cracked wide open. “She was my friend. My classmate… I wronged them both.”
Twenty Years Earlier
Patrick had once stood in front of her locker, eyes downcast. “Nancy, you’re kind, but I’m in love with someone else — Emma.”
Those words had burned into her heart.
At home, she’d sobbed to her mother, vowing revenge. Her mother had warned her, “Hurt doesn’t heal by causing more hurt.” But Nancy hadn’t listened.
Weeks later, she’d appeared at Patrick’s doorstep, trembling — pretending to be pregnant.
He’d believed her. Out of guilt and responsibility, he’d broken things off with Emma and stayed by Nancy’s side.
By the time Nancy confessed it was a “false alarm,” Emma had already left town, heartbroken. Patrick never saw her again. He married Nancy. They built a life. But some ghosts never rest.
Present Day
Nancy looked at Amanda through tears. “I ruined their love back then. And now… fate’s brought their child to me.”
Amanda’s voice was soft. “What will you do?”
Nancy looked down at the sleeping baby. “I’ll raise her. Maybe it’s the only way I can make things right.”
And she did.
Years passed. The baby, Catherine, grew into a kind, curious young woman. On her sixteenth birthday, Nancy told her everything — the affair, the lies, the guilt. She expected anger, rejection.
Instead, Catherine took her hand. “You made mistakes, Mom. But you gave me love. That’s what matters.”
Nancy wept, realizing that forgiveness — from Catherine, from life itself — had finally found her.
Moral: Sometimes, the past comes back not to punish us, but to offer one last chance to make things right.
