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After weeks of sleepless nights, I agreed to a supervised visit at a small park near my apartment.
Mark showed up early, nervous and pale. He didn’t bring flowers or gifts — just a small book and a look of quiet hope.
I turned away so neither of them would see the tears in my eyes.
After that, there were more meetings. Short ones at first, then longer. Mark never missed a visit. Rain or shine, he came. Slowly, Jacob began to trust him — asking questions, calling him “the nice man from the park.”
I still couldn’t forgive Mark completely. Some wounds never close fully. But as I watched Jacob’s face light up when his father arrived, I understood that this wasn’t about my pain anymore. It was about my son’s heart — and giving him the choice to know his father.
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