You were eighteen when your family arranged your marriage. You did not love him. You did not even try. All you wanted was freedom, time, and a life that belonged to you. He was seven years older, calm, controlled, and already tired of arguing with you.

From the first month of marriage, you kept asking for a divorce.

“I do not want this,” you said again and again. “I want my life back.”

He listened in silence most of the time. He never forced affection on you. He never begged. That only made you more frustrated.

When you found out you were pregnant, your resentment grew stronger. You blamed him for everything. You blamed him for trapping you, for taking away your future, for tying you down when you were still young.

“You took my freedom,” you said one night, your voice shaking with anger. “I hate this life. I hate being your wife.”

His expression hardened, but his voice stayed calm.

“Fine,” he said. “If you still want a divorce after you give birth, I will divorce you.”

You looked at him with relief, but his next words froze you.

“But the baby will be mine. The child will not know you are the mother.”

You hesitated. Your heart wavered for a moment. Then your desire for freedom won.

“Alright,” you said quietly. “I agree.”

After the baby was born, he kept his word. The divorce papers were filed quickly. He took the baby with him and moved to another country. You did not hold your child. You did not kiss his forehead. You told yourself it was for the best.

After that, there was nothing. No calls. No letters. No news.

You returned to your studies. You focused on your dreams. You worked hard and built the future you always wanted. Years passed, and you became a professor, respected and accomplished. But guilt stayed with you. You never allowed yourself to fall in love again. You closed your heart completely.

Eighteen years later, you were assigned as a class teacher for the first time.

While checking the student records, one name made your hands tremble.

Leonardo.

You read the details carefully. Father’s name was listed. The mother’s name was blank.

Your chest tightened. You had to look away for a moment. He had grown into a teenager now. Tall. Quiet. Serious, just like his father.

You told yourself to stay professional. He did not know you. You were only his teacher.

The day of the parent teacher meeting arrived, and you felt nervous in a way you had not felt in years. You knew who would walk through that door.

When the door opened, your breath caught.

He stepped inside wearing a cream colored suit. He looked more mature, more composed, and just as handsome as you remembered. His gaze landed on you, cold and unreadable.

You stood up, forcing yourself to remain calm.

“You must be Leonardo’s father,” you said.

He looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled faintly.

“Yes,” he replied. “I am.”

Silence filled the room, heavy with eighteen years of distance, regret, and things left unsaid.