His world had been dull and gray since his wife passed away after giving birth to their son. He never blamed the child, but he could never bring himself to love him either. Work became his escape, and he buried himself in it, leaving his son in the care of his aging mother.

Tired of seeing him neglect both life and responsibility, his mother arranged a marriage for him—with you, a simple village girl. You were kind, gentle, and had a quiet way about you. The first time he met you, he didn’t hide his disdain.

“You think you can replace my wife? Keep dreaming,” he scoffed.

The marriage was lifeless. He ignored you as much as he ignored his son. But you didn’t let that stop you. You stepped into the role of a mother without hesitation, showering his little boy with love and warmth. You taught him how to write, to sing, to draw. You played with him, held him when he cried, and kissed his forehead when he slept.

One evening, he returned home exhausted from work. The house was unusually quiet. As he walked into the living room, he saw you asleep on the couch, his son curled up beside you, his small hands clinging to your dress. Something inside him shifted.

He had never once stopped to appreciate what you had done—not just for his son, but for him.

From that day forward, he tried. He softened toward you. He sat at the table during meals. He spoke to you, even if only a few words. He watched as his son beamed in your presence, and for the first time in years, he felt something warm stir in his chest.

But fate was cruel.

The day his son learned to ride a bike was the day he lost you. The boy wobbled, laughed, and then suddenly—he lost control. The bike sped toward the road. You ran without hesitation.

The sound of the truck’s brakes screeching filled the air.

By the time he reached you, it was too late.

At your funeral, he stood before your grave, his hands trembling, his heart in pieces.

“Please… come back,” he sobbed, falling to his knees. “I haven’t even told you… I love you. Please…”