Three years ago, my father told me, “If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter,” and slammed the door on our relationship. I never thought I’d see him again—until his black car pulled into my driveway. Back then, I was a 25-year-old junior architect in love with Lucas, a humble carpenter. When I told Dad I was pregnant and wanted to marry Lucas, he disowned me. His words were cold: “Love doesn’t pay bills. You’re throwing your life away.” I left that night and never looked back.

Life with Lucas wasn’t easy, especially when our expected twins turned out to be triplets. But he worked tirelessly, taking odd carpentry jobs, while I managed our home. There were sleepless nights, arguments, and doubt—but also love, laughter, and slowly, stability. Lucas’s craftsmanship caught attention, and business grew. We eventually bought a modest home and secondhand car. Life felt full.

Then my father called. “I hear you have children now,” he said. “I’m coming tomorrow. One chance—come back or it’s goodbye forever.” The next day, he stepped into our home, inspecting it like a judge. “You’re not struggling,” he said, shocked. “You could’ve had more.” I stood firm: “We have everything we need.”

He stormed out—but didn’t leave. Hours later, he returned, tears in his eyes. “I was wrong,” he said, voice breaking. “I should’ve been proud.”

We embraced, years of pain melting in that moment. Then he met the triplets. “Grandpa?” one asked. “Yes,” he choked. “Grandpa’s here now.”