At 25, I built my own house, and at the housewarming party, my mother took me aside

Later, at a clinic, she saw him again — holding a dark-eyed little girl who looked just like him as a boy.

“What a beautiful child,” Irina said softly. “Tell me her name. I’m her grandmother.”
Marcus stood, adjusted his daughter in his arms, and walked away.
“Marcus, please!” she cried. “Let me see my grandchildren!”
Her voice echoed down the sterile hallway. He never turned back.

The final time she saw him was through the window of a café in Lyon. Inside, Marcus sat with Amalia and their children, laughter spilling like sunlight across the table. They looked whole, untouched by the past.

Irina stood outside in her worn coat, shivering. When Marcus finally looked up and saw her, their eyes met. She raised a hesitant hand in greeting. He looked away and bent toward his children again.

That night, she faced the truth she had long denied: she had thrown away the best of her children — and he had learned to live without her.

Sitting alone in her small flat beside her drunken son, Irina whispered into the silence:

“I lost the best of my children.”

And for once, she did not lie to herself.