I gave a ride to a pregnant waitress after her shift. A month later, my husband turned white when he saw her photo.
It started on a rainy Tuesday.
I saw her at the bus stop on my way home. Soaked, shivering, one hand on her belly.
I knew the bus wasn’t coming again that night.
I pulled over. “Do you need a ride?”
She hesitated, then opened the door. “If you’re sure.
I live like 10 minutes away.”
Her name was Josephine. Twenty-four. Seven months pregnant.
Waiting tables while saving for design school.
When I dropped her off, she thanked me three times.
We exchanged numbers “just in case,” and I figured that was that.
The next morning, she texted.
Thank you again. Can I buy you coffee sometime?
We met downtown two days later. It was supposed to be a quick coffee.
We stayed for two hours.
She was 10 years younger, but it didn’t feel like it. We talked about everything.
By the end of the week, Josephine and I were texting almost every day. Belly photos.
My kids’ drawings. Voice notes at midnight about cravings and insomnia.
In less than a month, she felt like a friend I’d had forever.
So I invited her over for lunch that Saturday.
Friday night, I told Larry, my husband of 13 years, about my plan.
“I’m having someone over tomorrow. The girl I told you about from the diner.
Josephine.”
“The pregnant one?” he asked.
“Yeah. Seven months. She’s sweet.
You’ll like her.”
I showed him a picture.
The second he saw her photo, his face went pale.
“You know her?” I asked.
He shook his head too fast. “No. Never seen her before.”
Something was off.
But it had been a long week, and I let it go.
The next day, Josephine showed up right on time. She even brought cupcakes from the diner.
Larry texted from the bedroom.
Stomach’s killing me. Gonna lie down.
So Josephine and I ate without him.
Halfway through, she got up to stretch and wandered to the bookshelf.
She picked up our wedding photo.
Her hands started shaking.
She turned to me, voice barely there.
“Is that… your husband?”
Josephine’s fingers shook so hard the frame rattled.
She stared at the photo. Then at me.
“Is that your husband?” she repeated.
I wiped my hands on a towel and walked over. “Yeah.
That’s Larry. We’ve been married for 13 years. Why?”
Her face went white.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“Oh my God. Mia, I am so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
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