The toy store was loud, bright, and chaotic — a battlefield where children triumphed and parents surrendered. But in that moment, the only thing I could focus on was my son, Mason Tran, lying dramatically on the floor and screaming as if the world had wronged him in the cruelest way.

“I want it! I want that one! I only want that one!”
He pointed at a giant Ultraman inside the display window, tears streaming down his face.

I knelt beside him, cheeks burning with embarrassment as strangers whispered.

“Mason, please… our apartment is tiny. We don’t have space for something this big. When we move, I’ll buy it for you, okay?”

“No!”
He sat up, declared his refusal, then fell back down to cry even louder.

I sighed, massaging my temples — and when I lifted my head, the breath froze in my lungs.

Across the walkway, motionless in the crowd, stood Adrian Scott.

My ex-boyfriend.
My first love.
My biggest regret.

His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and devastatingly familiar. Haicheng was a sprawling city — I had convinced myself that even living here for years, the chances of seeing him again were close to zero. Yet here he was.

I stood up quickly, tugging Mason by the arm, but a pair of polished black dress shoes blocked my path.

“Natalie.”

His voice was soft, trembling slightly.
Then he looked at Mason — at the messy hair, tearful eyes, little hands clenched into fists.

“This child… is he mine?”

I froze. “Adrian, no, you—”

But he had already bent down and lifted Mason into his arms.

“You want that one?” he said, pointing at the Ultraman.

Mason sniffled, nodded timidly, sneaking a guilty glance at me.

“I’ll buy it for you,” Adrian whispered.

“Adrian, stop,” I said sharply. “He’s not your son.”

He looked at me — not angry, just impossibly calm.

“How old are you, buddy?”

“S-six and a half…” Mason whispered.

Adrian turned back to me.
Cold. Sure. Unshakeable.

“The math lines up exactly. And you’re still denying he’s mine?”

“Because he’s not.”

“Then whose is he?” His voice dropped. “Back then, besides me, who else could there have been?”

No one.
There was no one else — and there had never been anyone else.

But Mason truly was not his.

I explained it all to him in a café nearby — about my cousin, the accident, the adoption, the tragedy. But the more I explained, the more distant his eyes grew.

“Natalie,” he said with a bitter smile, “your lies used to be better than this.”

“I’m not lying.”

He ran a gentle hand through Mason’s hair.
“This boy looks exactly like me. If he’s not mine, then tell me whose son he is.”

I didn’t see the resemblance at all.

“If you doubt me, then do a DNA test.”

“I don’t need a test,” he said firmly. “He’s my son.”

That was when I realized — he wasn’t misunderstanding.
He was refusing to understand.

He followed us home afterward, scrutinizing my tiny, cluttered one-bedroom apartment.

“Seven years, and your place still looks like this,” he muttered.

“Leave, Adrian,” I said quietly. “You’ve seen us. Now please go.”

“I’m not leaving. I needed to see where my son has been living. This neighborhood is unsafe. He can’t stay here.”

“He’s not your son!”
The words burst out of me, louder than intended.
“Why won’t you listen?!”

He sat calmly on my sofa.
“Natalie, if I wasn’t blind back then, I would’ve never let you fool me.”

My lips trembled. Tears stung my eyes. No matter how many years passed, Adrian always knew exactly where to cut deepest.

He stepped closer, pinning me against the wall.

“You said you’d never hide anything from me again. And then you hide a child?”

“I didn’t hide anything…” My voice broke. “I swear I didn’t.”

But he didn’t believe me.

How could he?
Seven years ago, the story he heard made me look like a monster — a manipulative girl who approached him for money, lied to her family, used him, then discarded him.

That wasn’t the truth.
But it was what he believed.

Years ago, when my grandfather was dying, I was desperate for help. Adrian was wealthy, kind, vulnerable after a breakup. I pursued him, and he fell for me sincerely. He paid most of the hospital bills, stood by me through the darkest days.

I should have trusted him.
Should have confided in him.
Should have fought to keep him.

Instead, at my grandfather’s funeral, my aunt’s family exploded into violence and accusations. They wanted money, inheritance that didn’t exist, and they dragged Adrian’s name into the mud.

Cornered, terrified they would ruin his life, I said something unforgivable — something I didn’t mean.

“He was just someone I used for money.”

When I looked up, Adrian was standing at the doorway.

His heart broke right in front of me.

He never spoke to me again.

His mother visited days later. Calm. Elegant. Cruel.
She offered money — to “settle things.”
Then she told me her son didn’t want to see me anymore.

That was the end of us.

Or so I thought.

Now, seven years later, Adrian stood in my apartment holding my adopted son as if he belonged to him — and nothing I said could convince him otherwise.

He took Mason out for ice cream, then to the playground, then insisted on driving us to a pediatric checkup, then bought groceries on the way home.

He made himself part of our routine — as if he had never left.

And Mason…
Mason liked him.

He clung to Adrian.
He laughed with him.
He asked when he’d visit again.

Watching them together was torture.

One evening, after Mason had fallen asleep, Adrian stood in my living room, a box of groceries still in his hand.

“Move in with me,” he said.
It wasn’t a request.

“No.”

He stepped closer. “You can’t raise him like this. He needs stability. A better school. A safer environment. I can give him everything.”

“He doesn’t need you,” I whispered.

“You’re lying. To me, to him, to yourself.”

He lowered his voice.

“I never believed anything you said that day at the funeral. Not really. I tried to hate you. God knows I tried. But when I saw you today… the past hit me like a punch to the chest.”

I swallowed hard. “You said you were disgusted by me.”

“I lied.”
His jaw clenched.
“I said it because if I didn’t push you away, I would’ve forgiven you. Even then.”

My heart twisted painfully.

“Adrian… even if you still hate me, that’s okay. But Mason isn’t—”

He cut me off.

“You don’t understand, Natalie. I lost you once. I’m not losing you again. Not your son. Not you. Nothing.”

“He’s not your son!”

“Then let me prove I’m worthy of being in his life.”

I shook my head. “Adrian, please—”

He softened suddenly, voice breaking.

“Natalie… just let me stay.”

And something inside me finally cracked.

Because the truth was —
I had never stopped loving him either.

I never expected forgiveness.
Never expected a second chance.
Never expected him to look at me again without hatred.

But here he was —
broken, stubborn, refusing to walk away.

And Mason, warm and gentle, climbed sleepily into the hallway at that exact moment, rubbing his eyes.

“Mommy… is Mr. Adrian staying for breakfast tomorrow?”

Adrian’s breath hitched.

I looked at my son.
Then at the man who once shattered me — and whom I shattered in return.

I exhaled slowly.

“…Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, he is.”

Mason beamed and ran to Adrian, hugging his leg before sleepiness took him over again.

Adrian looked at me with something raw, something fragile, something real.

“So are you,” he murmured.

I didn’t argue.

Because for the first time in years, the weight on my chest loosened.

Maybe we were broken.
Maybe we were bruised.
Maybe we had seven years of pain neither of us could erase.

But Mason’s small hand rested in Adrian’s palm.
Adrian’s eyes softened when they met mine.
And in the quiet of that dim apartment, a future — impossible, undeserved, miraculous — finally felt within reach.

Love wasn’t about perfection.
It never had been.

It was about choosing someone despite the scars.

And that night, without dramatic words or promises…
we chose each other again.