It was a Friday night when I walked into Bella’s, the little Italian restaurant just off Main Street. The place was buzzing, the kind of cozy spot where you couldn’t help but overhear conversations from the next table.
That’s when I saw him—my boss, Mr. Daniels. He was seated at a corner table, his wife across from him, candles flickering between them. They looked like a couple out of a magazine—perfect posture, polite smiles, the picture of elegance.
I hesitated. Usually, I wouldn’t intrude, but the day before, at the office, Mr. Daniels had made an announcement that had everyone clapping and cheering.
He was going to be a father.
He had stood tall, hands in his pockets, beaming like a man with the world at his feet. We congratulated him, slapped him on the back, even joked about baby names. It was the happiest I’d ever seen him.
So when I spotted him at Bella’s, I thought it would be kind to extend the celebration.
I walked over, smiling warmly. “Mr. Daniels! Good to see you. I just wanted to say congratulations again—and congratulations to you too, Mrs. Daniels.”
His wife’s expression shifted instantly. The warmth drained from her face. She blinked at me as though I’d just spoken another language. Her hand, resting on her wine glass, trembled slightly.
“Oh,” she said softly, her voice tight. “I… I don’t understand.”
That’s when I knew something was wrong.
Mr. Daniels’ face darkened. He stood quickly, nearly knocking over his chair, and gripped my arm hard enough to hurt. His smile was gone, replaced with an urgency that sent a chill down my spine.
Leaning in close, he whispered:
“My wife actually isn’t pregnant.”
The words punched the air from my chest. My eyes darted to his wife, whose pale face had gone completely rigid. The silence between us was deafening, broken only by the clatter of plates from the kitchen.
“Excuse me,” his wife said abruptly, pushing back her chair. She grabbed her purse and strode toward the exit without looking back.
I stood frozen, my boss’s grip still on my arm. When she was gone, he let out a long, ragged breath.
“You weren’t supposed to say anything,” he muttered, his voice low, strained.
“But you told us—you told the whole office—” I stammered.
His eyes met mine, sharp and weary. “I told you what I wanted everyone to believe. But the truth… the truth is much messier.”
We sat down at the table, the wine between us untouched. His face was buried in his hands. Finally, he spoke.
“My wife can’t have children. We’ve known for years. It’s been the shadow over our marriage—silent, heavy. And yesterday, when I said those words at the office… I don’t even know why I did it. Maybe I wanted to feel normal, to feel celebrated, just for a moment.”
I swallowed hard, guilt rising in my throat.
“She thinks I’ve accepted it,” he continued, his voice cracking. “But I haven’t. Every day I look at her, and I see the weight of it on her shoulders. And last night, when I told her about the office celebration, she cried herself to sleep.”
His hands trembled as he reached for his glass but didn’t drink.
“I thought… if I lived the lie long enough, maybe it would hurt less.”
I sat in silence, unsure of what to say. It felt like I had ripped open a wound I didn’t even know existed.
Finally, he looked up at me with tired eyes.
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“Do me one favor,” he said quietly. “Don’t tell anyone else. Let them believe I’m going to be a father. Just… give me that much. For a little while.”
I nodded, though my chest ached.
As I left the restaurant, I spotted Mrs. Daniels outside on the sidewalk, standing alone under the streetlight. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t angry. She just looked… empty.
And in that moment, I realized the truth: this wasn’t just about parenthood, or lies, or pride. It was about a marriage slowly breaking under the weight of dreams that could never come true.
The announcement my boss made in the office wasn’t one of joy. It was a scream in disguise—one nobody heard, but everyone felt.
