“If you marry him, you’re no longer my daughter.”
That was the last thing my father said before walking out of my life. I was 25, in love with Lucas—a kind, humble carpenter—and pregnant. My father cared more about wealth and status than love, and he cut me off completely.
I left that night with a suitcase and Lucas by my side. We moved into his small house on the edge of town. It was tight, especially as my belly grew with what we thought were twins—until the ultrasound revealed triplets.
Those first years were brutal. Lucas worked day and night, taking odd jobs to keep us afloat. I managed the house and the babies. There were times we barely had enough for bills, but he never once made me feel alone. His quiet strength held us together.
Eventually, his hard work paid off. His name started getting around. Projects got bigger. I managed the finances, and together we slowly built a life. When the triplets turned two, we moved into a cozy home—not big, but filled with love and pride.