A wealthy married man was having an affair with an Italian woman.
One evening, she confided in him that she was pregnant.
Not wanting to jeopardize his marriage or his spotless reputation, the man offered her a large sum of money to move to Italy and have the baby in secret.
He also promised to provide generous child support until the child turned eighteen — as long as she stayed there and raised the child quietly.
The woman agreed but asked how she would let him know when the baby was born.
To keep things discreet, he instructed her, “Just send me a postcard with the word ‘Spaghetti’ written on the back. I’ll understand what it means, and I’ll arrange everything.”
Months later, the man returned home from a business trip to find his puzzled wife holding a postcard from Italy.
“This came for you,” she said, squinting at the handwriting. “It’s… odd.”
Trying to play it cool, he said, “Oh, just give it to me. I’ll explain later.”
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But as he read the card, his face went pale — and then he fainted.
The postcard read:
“Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti. Two with meatballs, one without.”
The Aftermath
When he came to, his wife was standing over him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.
“Care to explain,” she said, “why three plates of spaghetti from Italy made you pass out?”
He stammered. “It—it’s just a business thing, darling. A… marketing joke, you see. A new product launch for our Italian clients.”
She raised an eyebrow higher. “Really? Because I called your office. You don’t have any Italian clients.”
His blood ran cold.
That postcard had been his secret lifeline — the one way he thought he could keep two lives from colliding. But now, everything was crashing down faster than he could control.
The Truth Unravels
Over the next few days, his wife grew increasingly suspicious. She noticed the calls he’d take in the garden late at night, the sudden trips to “Rome for business,” and the expensive wire transfers from his private account.
Then one evening, she quietly went through his desk drawer and found a photo — a grainy, folded picture of a dark-haired woman in a sundress standing beside a fountain.
On the back, in looping handwriting, were the words:
“Per sempre tuo — always yours.”
When he returned home that night, she was waiting at the dining table, the photo and postcard spread before her like evidence in a trial.
“Sit,” she said coldly.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a look that could cut glass.
“Tell me everything.”
And he did.
Piece by piece, the truth spilled out — the affair, the pregnancy, the deal. Every lie, every secret trip, every phone call he thought went unnoticed.
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When he finished, the room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Finally, she said, “You always told me that honesty was the most important thing in marriage. I suppose that only applied to me, not you.”
She stood, walked to the bedroom, and returned with an envelope.
“I already knew, by the way. I just wanted to hear you say it.”
Inside the envelope was a copy of their joint bank statement — and the transfer he thought he’d made in secret.
“I hired a private investigator months ago. You weren’t as clever as you thought.”
The Unexpected Twist
The next morning, he woke up to find her gone. No note, no goodbye — just her wedding ring sitting on the kitchen counter beside the coffee pot.
But that wasn’t the only surprise waiting for him.
A week later, he received another postcard — this time, not from Italy, but from his own lawyer.
“Dear Mr. Walters,
Your wife has initiated divorce proceedings. She has also requested full access to your financial records for the last two years.
P.S. — Congratulations. I heard about the triplets.”
He nearly dropped the letter. “Triplets?” he muttered, re-reading it, confused.
And then it hit him — Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti.
Two with meatballs. One without.
Three babies.
Three.
His “secret” had tripled overnight.
The Italian Woman’s Letter
Months passed. His divorce was finalized. He was left with half his fortune gone and a mansion that suddenly felt like a museum — full of expensive things and no laughter.
Then, one afternoon, he received a handwritten letter from Italy.
“Dear Michael,
I wanted to let you know the babies are healthy. Two boys, one girl. They all have your smile.
I named them Matteo, Marco, and Mia.I don’t want your money anymore. I realized something — the children deserve a father who isn’t ashamed of them.
You wanted a secret. I wanted a family.So, I’ll raise them with love — and I’ll tell them their father was a man too afraid of the truth to ever meet them.
Arrivederci,
Sofia.”
He sat in silence for a long time, staring at her words until they blurred.
For the first time in his life, money couldn’t fix it.
The Final Twist
Years later, his ex-wife remarried. She found love again — this time with someone who didn’t hide behind postcards or lies.
As for him, he visited Italy once. Not to see Sofia — he didn’t have the courage for that — but to stand outside a small café where she used to work.
He watched from afar as three laughing children chased pigeons near the fountain.
Two boys. One girl.
They didn’t know who he was.
He turned away before they could see him — but not before he whispered under his breath, “Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti.”
Epilogue
Sometimes, at night, he’d dream of that postcard — its simple, silly code that once made him laugh.
Now, it haunted him.
Because those four words he thought would save his secret ended up destroying everything.
And somewhere, thousands of miles away, three children were growing up without ever knowing the man who’d traded them for convenience.
Moral of the Story:
A lie may keep you comfortable today — but truth has a way of finding your address, even if it has to send itself on a postcard from across the world.
