Fifteen years ago, my wife, Lisa, kissed our newborn son and left to buy diapers. She never came back. I raised Noah alone, never knowing why she disappeared, torn between grief, anger, and endless questions.
Last week, everything changed. In a supermarket aisle, I froze—the woman picking up frozen peas looked exactly like Lisa. Older, different, but her gestures gave her away. I called her name. She turned, and it was her.
In the parking lot, she told me she had run away—scared of motherhood, of struggling, of the life we had. Her parents helped her vanish to Europe, where she built a new life. Now, she said, she wanted to return, to give Noah “the life he deserved.”
But money couldn’t erase fifteen years of absence. It couldn’t heal the nights I stayed up alone with a crying baby, or the questions Noah asked about his mother.
I looked at her one last time and said, “Noah and I have moved on. We don’t need you anymore.” Then I walked away, finally closing the chapter that had haunted me for half my life.
