My 70-year-old father-in-law insisted on hiring a young maid. A year later, pale and frail, he stunned us by announcing he’d marry her—40 years his junior—because she was “carrying his child.”
After my mother-in-law passed, he lived alone. We hired Esmeralda, 29, from a village—quiet, bright, caring. At first, I thought it was good he had company. But within months, she’d gone from maid to confidante.
The family was outraged at his marriage plan, sure she was after his money. But before the wedding, he collapsed and died, leaving a shaky will: his assets split among his children, except the house, left to Esmeralda and her “son.”
When we went to register the baby, Esmeralda handed us a DNA test—the child wasn’t his. She’d faked the pregnancy, not knowing he’d secretly discovered years-old infertility from prostate surgery.
Maybe he knew all along. Maybe he just wanted, one last time, to believe he was loved. Holding his will and medical report, my anger faded, leaving only sorrow for a man who had spent his life giving to others, yet died clinging to a fragile illusion.
