PART 2 — Twelve Years Earlier
Twelve years ago, I thought my life was finally beginning.
I was nineteen.
Young enough to believe that love could overcome everything.
Thomas was twenty-two.
He worked at his father’s company, drove a car that was far too expensive, and always wore a watch that had belonged to his grandfather.
But the thing I remember most about him was his laugh.
When he laughed, I forgot everything around me.
We had plans.
A small house.
A dog.
Children.
A kitchen where we would cook together.
A future that seemed so certain that I never imagined I could lose it.
When I found out I was pregnant, I was scared.
But I was also happy.
I told Thomas on a cold evening in November.
He stared at the test in my hand for a long time.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He sat down.
I waited for a smile.
But it never came.
“Thomas?”
He ran his hands over his face.
“This can’t be happening.”
“Why not?”
“My father will kill me.”
I thought he was exaggerating.
I thought he just needed time.
But over the next few days, he changed.
He called less.
He visited less often.
And whenever I talked about the baby, he looked away.
His mother, Marianne, made everything worse.
She came to my house one afternoon.
She wore a beige coat and had a face without any emotion.
“You need to understand that Thomas has a future.”
“We’re having a child.”
“Exactly.”
She placed an envelope on the table.
“That is money.”
I pushed it back.
“I don’t want money.”
“You don’t understand what you are doing.”
“I understand perfectly.”
She looked at me.
“You are destroying his life.”
I stood up.
“Then that is his choice.”
Her expression turned cold.
“You will regret this.”
Seven months later, Thomas disappeared.
His phone stopped working.
His apartment was empty.
His mother said he had gone abroad for business.
I didn’t believe her.
But I had no proof.
When my labor started, I was alone.
I still remember the sound of the rain outside the hospital.
I remember how afraid I was.
And I remember the moment when the nurse placed my baby in my arms.
A boy.
Small.
Warm.
Perfect.
I cried.
Not because I was sad.
Because I loved him.
I whispered his name.
“Lucas.”
He opened his eyes for a moment.
His fingers wrapped around mine.
At that moment, I knew I would fight for him.
No matter what happened.
Three days later, Marianne came into my hospital room.
She looked different.
Not angry anymore.
Now she looked serious.
“Thomas had an accident.”
My heart nearly stopped.
“Where is he?”
“Abroad.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Badly.”
She told me he needed treatment.
That he might never walk again.
That he didn’t want to see anyone.
I believed her.
Because I was nineteen.
Because I was afraid.
Because I still loved him.
Then she placed a document in front of me.
“Thomas wants Lucas to stay with his family.”
I started crying.
“Why?”
“She believes you cannot give him what he needs.”
That was the first lie.
The second came after.
“But you can visit him later.”
I signed.
My handwriting was at the bottom of the page.
Eva Van der Meer.
The same name that, twelve years later, would appear on a hospital form.
They took Lucas away.
I still remember how I refused to let go.
I begged.
I screamed.
I said I had changed my mind.
Marianne told me it was too late.
After that, my son disappeared.
I received no address.
No phone number.
No pictures.
No birthday cards.
Nothing.
For years, I tried to find him.
I wrote letters.
I called old numbers.
I searched for Thomas.
But everyone said the same thing:
Thomas was gone.
Lucas officially no longer existed in my life.
After several years, I started believing that maybe I truly had no other choice.
I went to work.
I moved away.
I built a small life for myself.
But I never had another child.
I couldn’t.
Every time I saw a baby, I felt the same pain.
And then, twelve years later, my phone rang.
A hospital.
A boy.
Lucas.
My son.
The same boy I had once held in my arms.
That night, I sat beside his hospital bed and watched him sleep.
I barely dared to touch him.
But one question kept repeating in my mind.
If Marianne had lied about everything…
why had Thomas never tried to find me?
The next morning, I would get the answer.
But it would hurt far more than I ever expected.
