The night before meeting my son Ryan’s girlfriend, Sophie, I couldn’t sleep. Ryan spoke about her with a rare light in his eyes—hopeful, happy. I was eager to meet the girl who made him smile again. Dinner started perfectly. Sophie was polite, charming, exactly as Ryan described. But everything changed when she noticed a family photo on the wall. Her face turned pale. Her hands trembled. “I know him,” she whispered, pointing at my husband, Thomas.

Sophie revealed a secret Thomas had kept hidden—he’d been living with her mother, promising love, a future, even a child. Suddenly, the life we knew shattered in an instant. We drove to Sophie’s house in tense silence. Thomas answered the door, towel over his shoulder. Behind him stood a pregnant woman—Sophie’s mother—staring at me with disbelief. Ryan, furious, whispered, “You’re dead to me,” before we left. That night, we took Sophie home—she couldn’t go back.

As we sat surrounded by melting ice cream and untouched cake, I handed them dessert, recalling something my mother used to say: “Sweetness helps the soul.” In that moment, I chose peace over vengeance. But I haven’t forgotten what justice demands.