Greg thought he and Natalie had figured out the whole co-parenting thing—until a late-night phone call shattered that illusion with devastating news.
Five years. That’s how long Natalie and I were together before we admitted defeat and went our separate ways. We were young when we met—too young, maybe—and as the years passed, the spark faded into a quiet acknowledgment that we weren’t each other’s forever.
Now, we live completely different lives in different states. The only connection we share is our three-year-old son, Oliver. He’s my world. I get him on holidays and during school breaks, but it’s never enough. Still, we worked hard to keep things civil for his sake.
Every night, Natalie would call so I could say goodnight to Oliver. It became a comforting ritual: his bright smile lighting up the screen, his tiny voice saying, “Night, Daddy.” It made the distance bearable—almost.
And then, everything fell apart with one phone call.
Natalie’s voice was hysterical when she called me that night. “Greg,” she choked out, “Oliver’s gone!”
The words didn’t register at first. “Gone? What do you mean?”
“He’s dead!” she screamed, her voice cracking with grief.
The ground seemed to fall out from under me. “What? How? He was fine yesterday!”
Through sobs, she barely managed, “It was so sudden… I couldn’t stop it… He’s been buried, Greg. It’s over.”
I was paralyzed. The weight of her words crushed me, but her decision to handle everything without me—the funeral, the burial—was incomprehensible.
The next day, still drowning in grief, I received a call from Mike—Natalie’s new husband.
“Greg,” he said cautiously, “I need to tell you something. Natalie’s lying. Oliver is alive.”
“What?” I whispered, the air rushing out of me.
“She made it all up,” he explained, his voice strained. “Oliver’s with her parents. She thought if you believed he was gone, you’d stay out of her life.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Relief, anger, and disbelief collided in a whirlwind of emotion. My son was alive. But Natalie had lied about something so horrific that it was almost unforgivable.
I flew out immediately, determined to confront her. When Natalie opened the door, her eyes were swollen and red.
“Greg,” she whispered.
I stepped inside, barely able to keep my voice steady. “How could you do this? You told me our son was dead!”
Tears streamed down her face as she stammered, “I was scared… scared you’d try to take him from me.”
“Take him?” I repeated, incredulous. “I’m his father, Natalie! I would never take him away from you. But you made me believe he was gone forever. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Her apology felt hollow. I couldn’t fathom the depth of her betrayal. But before I could say more, a tiny voice called out from the hallway:
