I was waiting for my friend at a café, about to sit at a table by the window, the sunlight promising a perfect afternoon. A rare moment of calm. Then a woman slammed into me. “MOVE IT! MY KIDS NEED THESE SEATS!” she snapped, no apology. Just raw, unbridled aggression. I stumbled back, clutching my purse. The sheer audacity took my breath away. My throat tightened. I felt small, stupid. I wanted to yell back, to tell her exactly where she could go, but I just stood there, stunned. She practically shoved her two small children into the chairs, then flung their coats over the backs, staking her claim as if she owned the place. I found another small, less desirable table tucked away in a corner, my coffee already tasting bitter. Why was she so angry? I watched her over the rim of my cup. She looked… exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back messily. The kids were squirming, loud. A little girl dropped her juice box, splattering the floor. The woman just pinched the bridge of her nose, a silent scr am of frustration escaping her lips. My anger started to ebb, replaced by a strange, unsettling pity. Her life must be incredibly hard.
My friend arrived then, a burst of cheerful energy. “Sorry I’m late!” she chirped, settling into the chair opposite me. We started talking, catching up on our week, but my eyes kept drifting back to the window table. The woman was still trying to wipe up the juice with napkins, her face a mask of weariness. Her son was now attempting to climb on the table. She looked up, caught my gaze for a fleeting second, and her expression was just… broken.
Then he approached their table. He was tall, with broad shoulders. He bent down, ruffled the boy’s hair, then kissed the woman’s temple. He sat down, pulling a chair from another table, and she managed a small, tired smile. My heart did a strange, uncomfortable flutter. Something about him felt familiar. Not like I knew him, but like I’d seen him before. The way he moved. The way he leaned in to listen to the little girl.
He laughed at something she said, a deep, warm sound. He reached across the table, took the woman’s hand, and squeezed it gently. Then he looked up, directly at me, and his eyes…
My breath hitched.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat.
NO. NOT HIM. IT CAN’T BE.
My blood ran ice cold.
My friend was still talking, but her words faded into a distant buzz. My hands were shaking so hard I had to grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. He raised a hand, a small, apologetic wave, as if to say, sorry about the commotion. And then he smiled. That familiar, easy smile. The one he always gave me across the breakfast table. The one he used to calm me down after a long day. The one I had fallen so deeply, foolishly in love with.
That woman, the one who had snapped at me, who looked so utterly miserable, was his wife.
My partner. My fiancé’s wife.
Those were his children.
He was living a whole other life.
My whole world, my entire future, every dream we ever shared, evaporated in that single, gut-wrenching moment.
I just stared, numb, as he continued to chat with his family. The family I never knew existed.
He had two kids. He was married. And I… I was just the other woman.
My friend nudged me. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I had. The ghost of every single lie he ever told me.
