For nearly two decades, he wasn’t just my partner—he was home. Though we never married or had children, our connection ran deep. When birth control became complicated, he quietly chose a vasectomy—an unspoken vow to our life together. I thought we were unbreakable.
But betrayal shattered that illusion. I found out about the affair, and I walked away. Within six months, he married her—a cruel echo of everything I thought we had. Time passed, and I rebuilt. A year into a new relationship, I became pregnant. Unexpected, yes—but deeply loved.
Then came the unthinkable: his sudden death in a car crash. And with it, the will. I was the primary beneficiary—despite his marriage, despite their unborn child. Days later, his letter arrived. He said he’d been manipulated, that his marriage was hollow, and that I had always been the one.
He asked for no forgiveness—just understanding. His widow and family unleashed their rage, but I chose silence, not conflict. I accepted the inheritance, securing my daughter’s future. I never attended his funeral, but I whispered my goodbye at his grave. And sometimes, in quiet moments, I still ask myself: was loving him worth it?