Six years later… and she didn’t come back alone.

Elena had vanished from the village one frosty November morning, silent as a shadow, without a goodbye. For some, her departure was cowardice; for others, survival. The truth was simpler — and sadder.

When Marcos left her for a younger woman, telling her that his love “wasn’t enough to build a family”, she had packed what little remained of her dignity into a single worn suitcase and walked away from the life they’d built.

For six years, Marcos heard nothing. No letters, no calls. He remarried, childless, and settled into a quiet, mechanical life in the same house where Elena’s tears had once soaked the pillows. He convinced himself she was just a chapter best left unread.

Until that autumn afternoon.

He was mowing the lawn when he saw her walking up the path — but it wasn’t the Elena he remembered. This woman’s shoulders were square, her chin high, her eyes steady. And beside her walked two children — twin beams of life — their dark hair tousled by the wind, their brown eyes his eyes.

“Hello, Marcos,” she said softly, without venom, without nostalgia. “They wanted to meet their father.”

The words lodged in his chest like a blade.

He stared at the children, both watching him curiously from behind their mother’s legs. He didn’t need a DNA test. The truth was written in the tilt of their smiles, in the way their brows furrowed exactly like his when the sun hit their eyes.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked.

Elena’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Because when you left me, you said you didn’t want a family. So I gave you what you wanted. I raised them alone. But now they’re old enough to ask, and they deserve an answer.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument they’d ever had. Marcos felt the brittle wall of his self-deception collapse, revealing an emptiness he had never dared to face.

“And now?” he finally asked, almost in a whisper.

“Now,” she said, “it’s up to you. I’ve done my part.”

She reached for her children’s hands and began to turn away. The little boy glanced back once, as if memorizing the stranger who shared his face.

Marcos took a step forward, desperation surging — but the words stuck in his throat. What could he say? That he was sorry? That he was ready now, after missing the first five years of their lives?

“Come on,” Elena murmured to them. “Dad needs time.”

And they walked away, leaving him standing among the dry leaves and the sharp, bitter scent of regret.

He stayed there long after they’d vanished from view, the mower silent beside him. For the first time in years, Marcos realised the cruel truth: you can lose a woman and convince yourself it was for the best. But when you lose the children you never knew you had — there’s no pretending it doesn’t hurt.

Some wounds are chosen. Some are inflicted. And some… are carved by your own hands.