My 18-year-old daughter Mia moved out about six months ago after we had a huge fight.
I didn’t stop her-she’s an adult and can make her own choices.
But recently, I happened to see her at a café, and she was PREGNANT-with a noticeable baby bump! And as if that wasn’t shocking enough, she was sitting all cuddled up at a table with my best friend Joshua, who is 48 years old and has a wife and kids!
“Elliot.” Joshua’s face ashen when he saw me. Mia’s smile disappeared instantly.
“What the hell is this?” I barked, pointing at them.
My voice was louder than I realized, turning heads and drawing whispers. “Mia, you’re pregnant? And with him?
God, is he the boyfriend you told me about? No wonder you didn’t want me to meet him!”
“Dad, stop,” Mia said. She glanced around, “It’s not what it looks like—”
“Not what it looks like?” I cut her off, jabbing a finger toward Joshua.
“And you!
What kind of betrayal is this, huh? Mia is my daughter, the girl you used to push on the swings… what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Elliot, calm down,” Joshua said. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but it only stoked my anger.
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” I spat.
“You, of all people — you know how much I’ve sacrificed for her! And this is how you repay me?”
I barely noticed the whispers of other people in the café or the horrified look on Mia’s face. My focus was solely on Joshua, the man I thought had been my brother in everything but blood.
Mia rose from her seat, “Dad, stop!
You’re embarrassing yourself—”
“Embarrassing myself?” I snapped, turning to her. “Do you have any idea—”
“Just let me explain…” Joshua stepped forward, but his foot caught on the chair leg.
His arms flailed as he stumbled backward. I reached out instinctively, too late.
His head hit the floor with a crack that seemed to echo through the entire café.
“Joshua!” Mia’s scream jolted me out of my frozen stupor. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering over his head, unsure where to touch.
The entire café went silent as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
I stood there, staring at the man I had just accused of the worst kind of betrayal. Blood pooled beneath his head, stark against the pale tile.
My anger evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold dread.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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