The room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. My son sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes red, his shoulders heavy, the way only heartbreak can weigh a young man down. I didn't need to ask what had happened. I could see it—his silence spoke louder than his words ever could.
I pulled the chair closer and sat across from him. He didn't look at me, not yet. His fists were clenched, and his jaw trembled, holding back the storm inside.
"She left me, Papa," he whispered, finally breaking. "She said she doesn't love me anymore…"
The words echoed in the room, and for a moment, I was no longer his father—I was him. Sixteen years old again, sitting on my bed, staring at a message that had once shattered me the same way.
I leaned back, exhaling slowly. How do I tell him that I know exactly how this pain feels? That sometimes love leaves, but sometimes… it returns stronger than ever?
I placed my hand on his shoulder. "Beta, I know this pain. I've lived it. And if you allow me, I'll tell you a story tonight. My story. The story of how I met your mother."
His eyes finally met mine, full of disbelief and curiosity.
"You think your heartbreak is the end," I continued softly, "but what if I told you that I too was once left behind by the girl I loved… and yet, today, she's sitting in the next room as my wife?"
The disbelief flickered into a fragile spark of hope. He adjusted himself on the bed, pulling the blanket closer. "You? You also…?"
"Yes," I said, a small smile on my lips. "It all began many years ago, when I was about your age. Just an ordinary Indian boy… and an unexpected message on Instagram changed my entire life."
And so, on that quiet night, as my son listened with broken eyes, I began to weave the tale of the love that had carried me across distance, heartbreak, and years of waiting—until it finally became the family sitting under this very roof.
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