Not long ago, I had what anyone would call a complete family. Then, in the blink of an eye, I became a single mother.
At first, I couldn't accept that my life had changed so suddenly. But every time I looked at my little daughter, I was reminded that I had no choice but to keep living—for her.
Whenever I took her out for a walk, I would see happy families strolling together. Fathers carrying their children on their shoulders, mothers walking hand in hand with their husbands, couples laughing as they pushed strollers down the street. I couldn't help feeling a quiet pang of envy. More than that, I felt unbearably alone.
Eventually, I realized I couldn't stay home forever. Our savings were running out, and if I wanted to give my daughter a better life, I had to go back to work.
My parents offered to take care of her while I worked.
Leaving my daughter when she was only fifteen months old was one of the hardest things I had ever done. She was still breastfeeding, so every day my parents would bring her to my workplace so I could nurse her before taking her home again.
Looking back now, I honestly don't know how we managed to get through those exhausting days.
Starting a new job wasn't easy. Everything felt unfamiliar—the environment, the responsibilities, and the people. Building relationships with an entirely new team while trying to prove myself professionally was overwhelming.
Still, I endured.
Day after day, I adjusted to my new routine, balancing work with motherhood as best I could.
After three months, things finally began to fall into place. I became confident in my work and started achieving good results.
My career was improving.
My heart, however, remained painfully lonely.
Part of me wanted to open my heart again, but another part was terrified. I was afraid that if I loved someone again, I would only end up alone once more.
One day, a new male teacher joined our school. He was about my age and often came to me whenever he had questions.
"How do you write lesson plans?"
"What's the proper way to prepare a report?"
"Where should I begin when writing a presentation?"
He asked me about everything.
Whenever I could help, I shared everything I knew without hesitation.
Unfortunately, gossip spreads quickly wherever people gather, especially among large groups of coworkers.
Before long, people started pairing us together.
Rumors circulated that Gerlee was dating the new teacher. The stories became so elaborate that people repeated them as though they were undeniable facts.
None of it was true.
To us, we were nothing more than colleagues.
Still, hearing those rumors hurt more than I cared to admit.
The questions from my coworkers were even harder to bear.
"Where's your daughter's father?"
"Does he still visit her?"
"Are you planning to date again?"
"You're still young. Aren't you going to start a new family?"
I answered each question with a polite smile.
But inside, every question felt like another reminder that I was different.
Whenever people emphasized that I was a single mother raising a child alone, I felt embarrassed, isolated, and painfully self-conscious.
At night, after returning home, I would cry in silence.
In the beginning, I fell into depression over and over again. Eventually, I became used to it.
People will always have something to say, I told myself.
Why should I let lies control my life?
As my work performance continued to improve, I began to think that perhaps some of those cruel rumors came from jealousy rather than truth.
That evening, our entire department gathered to celebrate after work. We had dinner together, shared a few drinks, and enjoyed ourselves.
I didn't drink much because I kept thinking about my daughter waiting at home.
As the night went on, the new teacher became slightly drunk and walked over to where I was sitting.
"Gerlee," he said, slurring his words a little, "everyone at work keeps saying we're dating. Tell them that's not true, will you?"
I smiled awkwardly.
"Of course it isn't. Who's been telling you that? Don't believe those rumors."
He suddenly stood up and held out his hand.
"Come with me. Tell everyone. They won't believe me."
Not wanting the rumors to continue, I stood up and raised my voice so the whole table could hear.
"Everyone, listen! We're not dating. He already has a girlfriend, so please stop trying to match us together."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Everyone turned to look at us before slowly returning to their conversations.
He let out a relieved sigh and smiled.
"Thank you. Come on, let's have a drink together."
We clinked our glasses.
"Honestly," he said, "I really appreciate everything you've done for me. You've helped me so much since I started here."
We toasted three times.
By then, he was completely drunk, and I had begun to feel the alcohol too.
The truth was, he didn't actually have a girlfriend.
I'd only said that to stop people from linking us together.
After dinner, some of our younger coworkers suggested going to a nightclub to continue celebrating.
I wanted to go home.
My daughter was waiting for me, and I couldn't stop thinking about her.
But seeing how intoxicated the new teacher was, I couldn't bring myself to leave him alone. Reluctantly, I followed everyone to the club.
Music thundered through the building as flashing lights swept across the crowded dance floor.
Everyone ordered beer and began dancing.
The moment we sat down, the new teacher collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep.
I had two beers, danced for a little while with my coworkers, and decided it was finally time to leave.
Just as I picked up my bag, he suddenly woke up.
"Please don't go," he said softly. "Dance with me for a little while. There's something I need to tell you."
I shook my head.
"I'm worried about my daughter. If you have something to say, just say it."
He looked at me for several seconds before taking a deep breath.
"I... I think I've fallen for you."
His voice was surprisingly calm.
"I keep wanting to see you... to spend time with you. I can't stop thinking about you."
Then he looked straight into my eyes.
"What about you? How do you feel about me?"
For a moment, I was completely speechless.
"What?"
I stared at him in disbelief.
"I've never looked at you that way. You're just my coworker. What are you talking about?"
The hope in his eyes faded almost instantly.
"I see..."
He forced a bitter smile.
"I'm sorry. Please pretend I never said anything."
He leaned back against the sofa without another word.
I quietly picked up my bag and left.
The cool night air sobered me as I walked home.
All the way back, I kept replaying the conversation in my head, wondering how I should respond once he was sober.
The next morning, he walked into school looking absolutely miserable from his hangover.
As soon as he saw me, he gave me an awkward smile.
"What happened last night?" he asked, pretending not to remember. "Why did you leave? And... please forget everything I said."
I smiled gently.
"Actually, I was surprised too. But it would never work between us."
He lowered his head without saying a word.
"I have a daughter," I continued. "And even if I didn't, I'm not ready to let anyone into my life again. I don't want another relationship."
He nodded quietly.
"I understand."
After that day, he never mentioned it again.
We remained coworkers, but we both kept a respectful distance from each other.
That experience taught me something I had never truly understood before.
Sometimes, what feels like simple friendship to a woman can quietly become love in a man's heart.