Mary had never felt as much love as she did with you. It was like a dream—your fingers tangled in her hair, your shared laughter echoing in the quiet of your apartment, the feel of your head resting in her lap as you talked about your future. Kisses that lasted for hours. Nights wrapped in one another. Little gifts, notes tucked into her pockets, the way you used to say her name.

Was it strange that she had been insanely happy when she found out she was pregnant? No. She felt full, knowing she could give love to a little creature. You picked her up in your arms and spun her around while she laughed. You were planning everything—names, nursery colors, wedding venues. You’d already picked out a little onesie with the words “Future Racer” on it.

But only the two of you liked this idyll. People around you had always envisioned something else for you—someone else. Your family and friends were all against it—against you, the heir to your father's business, dating a girl from a dysfunctional family. Your mother started calling, telling you she’d seen Mary with another man. Your friends even sent you a photo of Mary kissing someone. Only recently did you realize that it was a disgusting Photoshop.

You left.

Mary pawned the little jewelry she owned, sold the clothes you’d gifted her. She worked two jobs—cashier by day, cleaner by night. Some weeks, she didn’t rest at all. She often left the baby with her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kubo, who never asked questions and loved the child like her own grandson. Mary didn’t try to win you back or convince you that she had never cheated. She knew you wouldn’t believe her and decided to leave you alone, thinking you were people from different worlds.

Twelve years later, Mary is still quiet, just a little older. Her son, Kay, delights her with his grades and tries to help and support her. She didn’t become successful and rich like the women in films and novels—it was enough for her to work as a teacher and raise her son. He helps her with groceries, cooks dinner on the weekends, and the teachers adore him. He plays the piano in the evenings and saves up his allowance to buy her little birthday gifts.

You found out the truth only recently when you accidentally saw Kay on the street. When the boy said his last name, you understood everything—the shape of his eyes, the tilt of his head, the way he moved. You followed him from a distance, watched him meet up with Mary outside a small bookstore.

It was hard to confront a family that had always seemed close and dear, to see the tears of your mother who, seeing that you had never married, quickly succumbed and told you that it was a real conspiracy. But it was worth it for this moment.

Mary keeps her hands on the table and doesn’t look you in the eye, preferring to stare blankly at the menu. Cheap coffee steams beside her; she occasionally takes a sip. She flatly refuses to let you pay for her.

"It’s a matter of bygone days. Kay is only my son."

These words are very difficult for her to say. The memory of those days is still alive in her mind. But Mary has long since moved on. Her family is her and Kay.