Maria rushed to explain:
“Sir, your late wife… she asked me before she passed that I help the babies make a Father’s Day gift for you every year. She wrote instructions before the twins were born. I was only following what she wanted.”
Alex’s vision blurred as he picked up the letter lying next to the prints.
It was in his wife’s handwriting.
His throat tightened as he read her words:
“Alex, if you’re reading this, I’m no longer here.
But I want you to know something:
These children will never grow up without love.
And neither will you.”
“So every year, Maria will help them make something for you —
because I know you will bury yourself in work unless someone stops you.”
“Don’t forget:
they need you.
And I loved you more than you ever realized.”
Alex sank onto the edge of the bed, overcome.
He had braced himself for betrayal, scandal, disaster — anything but this.
Maria placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“She wanted you to have memories.
Not regrets.”
Alex wiped his eyes, unable to speak.
The babies, sensing a familiar presence, began to wiggle and coo. One reached toward him, tiny fingers opening and closing.
He leaned over them, voice barely a whisper.
“I missed you too,” he said. “All of you.”
And for the first time in years —
the billionaire didn’t feel powerful, or wealthy, or busy.
He just felt like a father.
