My boyfriend left me when I was pregnant because his mother didn’t like me. I’ve raised my son alone for 17 years. Today, I ran into his mother. She burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I’ve been looking for you all these years.”

“Forgive me… I’ve been looking for you all these years.”

My stomach lurched. Not with emotion, but with rage. An old rage, but still raw. Forgiveness? Now? After shattering my life when I needed support the most. After convincing her son—my boyfriend at the time—that I was just “a mistake” and that fatherhood would ruin his future. Her, the woman who had treated me like a threat, like an intruder. The same one who pressured him until he abandoned me without looking back, leaving me pregnant, scared, and alone at nineteen.

I pulled away abruptly.

“Looking for me? Why?” I asked in a whisper, trying to control the trembling that coursed through my body.

Her tears fell uncontrollably. “You don’t know what I did… you don’t know what happened afterward. I thought I could fix something, even just a little…”

People were starting to stare at us. I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand answers. I wanted to tell her I didn’t need anything from her, that I had raised a wonderful son without her money or her name, that I had survived loneliness, temporary jobs, exhaustion, and fear. But the words caught in my throat.

She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for a confession that weighed too heavily.

“I had to tell him something… something terrible. I forced him to leave you. And then…” She broke off, unable to continue.

“Then what?” I insisted, feeling my heart pounding.

Her eyes, swollen from crying, searched for me desperately.

“Then I lost him. I lost him too.”

An icy silence enveloped us. And, for the first time in many years, I felt my anger about to explode.

I don’t remember ever feeling so many emotions mixed together at once: anger, bewilderment, an unexpected pang of compassion, and, above all, that old wound I thought couldn’t possibly hurt anymore. She was trembling, trying to maintain her composure amidst the growing murmur of onlookers watching us from the market stalls. I gritted my teeth. I didn’t want a scene. I didn’t want her pity. I didn’t want anything from her.

“Explain yourself,” I finally said.

She took a deep breath, like someone preparing to exhume an unbearable memory.

“The day he left you…” she began, “it wasn’t just because of what I thought of you. It was because I pushed him until he broke. I told him you weren’t ready, that you… that maybe you wanted to take advantage of him. I said a lot of horrible things. But that wasn’t the worst of it.”

I listened without blinking, trying not to let my emotions overwhelm me. But every word she spoke felt like a finger pressing on a bruise that never fully healed.

“What else did you do?” I asked with a coldness I didn’t even recognize.

“I threatened him,” she whispered. “I told him that if he took responsibility for you and the baby, I would kill myself.”

I froze. Literally frozen. I hadn’t expected that. I expected rejection, contempt, manipulation. But that sentence was on another level. I didn’t know whether to believe her, whether she was exaggerating, whether she was trying to justify the unforgivable. But the way she said it… her face… that kind of shame can’t be faked.

She continued:

“He panicked. He’s always been a sensitive guy, you know that. And when he saw me so distraught, when he thought I was capable of doing something like that…” She let out a sob and covered her mouth. “He begged me not to.” I assured him that the only way to keep me alive was for him to break up with you. To leave for good.

I felt nauseous. A bitter taste settled in my throat.

Seventeen years ago, I thought he was just a coward. Irresponsible. A grown man. I never imagined that behind his abandonment lay such brutal manipulation.

“And then?” I insisted, clinging to the last shred of strength I had left. Continue reading…