My name is Emily, and I live with my parents and my five-year-old son, Harry. Last Friday, we went to the carnival for a fun day out. Harry was excited to go on the carousel and get ice cream. As I paid for his ice cream, Harry wandered away to watch a clown. When I turned to give him the cone, he had disappeared.

Panic set in, and my parents and I searched everywhere, calling his name. Eventually, the police arrived, but no one had seen him. We searched late into the night, but Harry was still missing.

The next morning, we returned to the park, and Harry suddenly appeared, holding a small box. He calmly said, “God took me. He was nice.” Harry described the man as having a scar shaped like a star. My heart sank—Michael, Harry’s father, had a scar like that.

Later, Michael found us and revealed that Lisa, my former friend, had lied about their affair. He never cheated on me. Now, he wanted to be part of Harry’s life. Slowly, as Michael spent time with Harry, we began to rebuild our broken relationship. One evening, Michael held my hand, and I realized we had a second chance—this time, for Harry and us both.