A day after my wife informed me that our 3-year-old son had been buried, I learned the terrible truth.

Greg thought he and Natalie had co-parenting figured out—until a late-night call shattered that illusion.

After five years together, Natalie and I ended things amicably. We lived separate lives, connected only by our three-year-old son, Oliver. I saw him during holidays, and every night Natalie video-called so I could say goodnight. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

Then, one night, Natalie called in tears. “Greg, our son’s gone!” she sobbed. “Oliver is dead!”

Shock consumed me. “What? How?”

“It’s too late,” she whispered. “He’s already buried.”

Stunned and heartbroken, I sat in silence. Later, I called her back, demanding answers. “Why didn’t you tell me? I should’ve been there.”

“I couldn’t,” she sobbed. “I didn’t know how.”

The next day, while packing to visit, Natalie’s husband, Mike, called. “Greg, she made it up. Oliver’s alive.”

“What?” I whispered in disbelief.

Mike explained, “Natalie thought if you believed he was gone, you’d stay away.”

Furious, I flew to see Oliver. Natalie admitted she was pregnant and feared I’d take Oliver away. “I panicked,” she said, crying.

“You lied to me,” I said, shaking. “I thought he was gone forever.”

Eventually, I reassured Natalie I wouldn’t take Oliver but insisted on counseling to prevent this from happening again. Mike’s honesty helped me trust he’d look after Oliver when I couldn’t.

Back home, I realized I couldn’t stay far from my son anymore. I started looking for jobs near him. I had to be closer. Soon.