Monica told her mother, Vivienne, that she was engaged to a new man named Zach. The older woman couldn’t believe it, mainly because he was not wealthy, so she decided to dress up as a poor woman and investigate. She couldn’t have been more shocked at the scene she found in Zach’s house.
Vivienne’s daughter, Monica, had just stormed out of her house. They had a massive argument over Monica’s announcement. She was going to marry a man named Zach. Vivienne couldn’t believe it because she had no idea her daughter had broken up with her boyfriend, Anthony.
Anthony’s family wasn’t as wealthy as Monica’s family, but they were respected in the high society of Hartford. Vivienne dreamed of his daughter marrying well and never worrying about money. However, it seemed that Monica’s new man did not come from money at all. He lived in the small town of Mystic. Moreover, he was a fisherman, and his parents worked blue-collar jobs their entire lives.
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
That won’t do. She can’t marry him! Vivienne thought, trying to calm her rapidly-beating heart after the fight with Monica.
“I can’t marry Anthony, Mother! He cheated on me with at least three women in just two months! Do you want me to be miserable?!” Monica had asked in tears.
“That can’t be true!” Vivienne yelled back, and that’s when Monica decided to storm out of the house.
Vivienne sat in her living room and thought about what to do. She had to fix this somehow. If Anthony was really a cheater, it made sense that Monica became attracted to someone outside their society. But what if this Zach was with her for her family’s money? Men could be gold-diggers too.
She had to check out Zach without her daughter. It had to be a scenario where he was forced to act as himself and not the version he wanted Monica to see, so she came up with a plan.
The following day, Vivienne took a taxi and arrived in Mystic, Connecticut, wearing the most horrible clothes she could find in her old boxes. She wore a stained skirt which she purposely ripped on one side and a sweater that smelled like mothballs. It was perfect. She would see Zach and observe how he acted around regular people.
Luckily, Mystic was such a small town that everyone apparently knew where Zach lived. Vivienne just asked a lady at the local grocery store, and she pointed her in the general direction.
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Unsplash
She reached his house, which was worse than Vivienne could’ve imagined. It looked run down and had an unkempt garden. She saw beer bottles and cigarette buds lying around as she approached the front door. Monica has never seen this house before, Vivienne thought, convinced of it. There’s no way her daughter would’ve fallen for a man who lived like this.
She wanted to run but had to get this done, so she raised her finger and rang the doorbell. A man with a gray, sweat-stained shirt answered the door. He was clearly in his 20s. This had to be Zach. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and an unshaven face.
“Yeah?” the man said.
“Oh, hello,” Vivienne began tentatively. Now that she was there, she had no idea how to talk to him or what to say to discover what kind of personality he had.
“Lady, what do you want?” the man continued irately now.
“I’m sorry. I was wondering if you could help me. I’m a bit lost,” she finally blurted. “Are you Zach?”
“Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?” Zach asked and belched. Vivienne couldn’t help looking disgusted, and he laughed.
Suddenly, a woman started yelling from inside the house. “Zach! Where did you put my lighter? You’re always losing stuff! YOU IDIOT!”
Zach turned from Vivienne and started shouting at the woman. “I’m the idiot? I’M THE IDIOT! You’re the one that loses everything as soon as it gets here. I don’t know where you put it! Don’t blame it on me!”
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
“I can’t believe I’m still with someone like you! I’m going to leave you tonight!” the woman screamed some more, and Vivienne heard the distinct sound of breaking glass. She raised a hand to her chest.
“THE DAY YOU LEAVE WILL BE THE BEST OF MY LIFE, CRAZY WOMAN!” Zach snapped loudly and turned back to look at Vivienne. “Look, lady. Get to the point. I’m busy.”
“That’s your girlfriend?” Vivienne breathed. It was the only thing that came to her mind after that horrible display. These people were awful.
“None of your business, old woman. Now, go away,” he bellowed and slammed the door in her face. Vivienne jumped as the door closed and couldn’t believe her daughter was actually dating that man.
This is awful. Monica was not only going to get her heart broken again, but this man was clearly abusive and dangerous to women in general. Vivienne had to stop it. But first, she had to go back to Hartford, which meant finding a taxi in this small town.
She started walking the streets and noticed the other houses around the block. They were old and tiny, just like Zach’s, but others maintained them. At least, not everyone was bad in this area. They were covered in snow this time of the year. Suddenly, a woman came out of one of the houses, saw Vivienne, and waved.
Vivienne smiled and waved back, not knowing what else to do. The woman started walking towards her. She was around her age and had the kindest smile in the world.
“Hey, there! Do you need help? Are you lost?” the woman asked.
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
“Oh, no. Don’t worry about it. I just need to find a taxi and go home,” Vivienne answered and tried to walk away. But the woman wouldn’t let her.
“Wait. I’m Georgia. It’s getting really cold out here, and sometimes, it’s hard to find a taxi on the main road. Come inside, and I’ll call one for you,” she suggested.
“I’m Vivienne. Nice to meet you. That’s such a kind offer, but I don’t know….”
“I insist,” the woman continued and urged Vivienne inside.
They chatted a while, and Georgia called the cab company in town. Apparently, all the drivers were busy, and none of them wanted to drive all the way to Hartford.
“Oh, dear. What should I do? I have to get to Hartford tonight,” Vivienne muttered, biting her bottom lip.
“A taxi from here to Hartford is so expensive. Are you sure? Maybe, you can stay here, and tomorrow, you can take the bus,” Georgia noted.
“Oh, it’s alright. Someone else is paying the taxi,” Vivienne lied. “It’s important for me to get home tonight.”
Just then, someone opened the front door and came in. “Hey, Ma!”
It was a handsome man in his 20s who looked remarkably like Georgia with a kind face and smile. Georgia hugged him and introduced him to Vivienne. He was visiting his mother and brought over fresh fish he had caught that day.
“Oh, boy. I meant to ask. Do you know anyone going to Hartford tonight?” Georgia asked her son after stashing the fish in the freezer.
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
The man stood in the middle of the living room and pursed his lips. “Oh, I don’t. Why?”
“Vivienne has to get there tonight, but none of the taxis in town want to take her,” Georgia replied.
“Well, why don’t I take her? I was thinking of going to Hartford this weekend and buying some stuff. But I guess tonight works too,” Georgia’s son offered.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you out. You look tired,” Vivienne muttered, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s go,” the man insisted and guided Vivienne to his car. It was an old pickup, but he assured her it worked perfectly and would get them to their destination.
They talked during the more-than-one-hour drive to Hartford, and Vivienne was pleasantly surprised by his kind demeanor. Not many people would have offered an older woman a ride just like that, and she hadn’t talked about paying him. He was a kind, hard-working man.
Well, not everyone in that town is as awful as Monica’s new boyfriend. Why couldn’t she meet a boy like this? Vivienne was lost in thought as they entered the city.
“Ma’am. Where exactly are you going? I can take you anywhere,” the man wondered.
“Oh, there’s this gated community…,” Vivienne began, giving him the directions to her area. But she told him to stop at the gates instead of leading him to her house.
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
“Here! Have some money for the ride. It’s what I would’ve paid the taxi,” she said, holding out some cash in her hand and opening the door with her other hand.
“No, no. I couldn’t. I was already coming here anyway,” the man rejected her offer.
Vivienne tried to insist. “Please, take it.”
“No, ma’am. I really couldn’t. I used this ride as an excuse to see my girlfriend, who lives around the area. I should thank you!” the man laughed, and Vivienne joined him.
“Well, then. I appreciate your kindness,” she finally said before getting out of the truck and waving goodbye at the young man.
Oh, I never even asked his name. Jesus, I forgot all my manners, she thought after reaching her house.
Her meeting with Monica’s horrible boyfriend had truly shaken her, but at least, she met some great people that got her home safely. Obviously, she knew that money wasn’t everything, and many average folks were great people. But her daughter had made a colossal mistake.
Why couldn’t she have picked someone like Georgia’s son? He was pretty nice, Vivienne thought as she changed out of the old clothes and into her pajamas.
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
Suddenly, her phone pinged with a message. It was Monica. She said that she was bringing her boyfriend for dinner tomorrow night and hoped Vivienne would be nice.
“Oh, dear. I’m going to have to break your heart tomorrow. But you definitely can’t marry that man,” she muttered out loud, looking intently at her phone.
The following night, Vivienne was worried. Her daughter’s car had just pulled into her driveway, and Zach was coming with her. She had no idea how to explain what she did yesterday and how she ended up at that man’s house. But Monica would have to see reason. That horrible man was sweaty, rude, and had a girlfriend.
There was a knock on the front door, and Vivienne breathed deeply to gather her courage. She was about to start a huge fight with that man, and Monica had to listen to her. But when the older woman opened the door, her mouth dropped. No arguments or screams came out — just a tiny squeak.
“Mom?” Monica asked, frowning at her mother.
The man standing beside her was not that sweaty Zach she had met the previous day. It was Georgia’s son!
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
“Ma’am?” the man asked and looked at Monica with a confused expression. “This is your mother? I gave her a ride from Mystic last night.”
“What? Mom, what were you doing at Mystic?” Monica wondered, placing her hand on her waist.
“Oh, dear. Come in! Come in! This is your boyfriend, Zach?” Vivienne inquired as she guided them inside quickly, breathing heavily. She was ecstatic.
“Yes, Mom. This is Zach. But did you meet him yesterday?” her daughter asked again, refusing to let her change the subject. They both removed their coats, and Vivienne was smiling at them with the most relieved smile in the world.
“Yes, dear. It’s a long story. Sit down…,” she told them and explained everything that happened the day before, including how Zach ended up driving her back to Hartford.
There were two people named Zach in the town of Mystic, and the lady at the store only knew one of them. The rude one. Monica found the whole story hilarious and their original fight had already been forgotten by the time Vivienne finished.
For Illustration Purposes only. | Source: Pexels
The whole night, Vivienne was so friendly to Monica’s Zach. They had dinner and enjoyed a wonderful time. Before the couple left, Vivienne told Monica that she approved and would pay for their wedding if they desired. The older woman never judged Zach for being a fisherman because he treated her daughter like a princess.
Besides, after meeting that sweaty Zach, anyone else was infinitely better.
What can we learn from this story?
- Don’t judge others based on their financial status. Money doesn’t mean anything in the end. Some horrible people have tons of money, and some of the greatest might be working paycheck to paycheck.
- Don’t assume you know what’s best for your children. Some parents think they know what would make their kids happy, but that’s not always the case.
Share this story with your friends. It might brighten their day and inspire them.
I Found Photos of Me with a Newborn, but I Don’t Remember Ever Being Pregnant
I opened a box of forgotten photos while cleaning the attic and found pictures of me holding a tiny newborn, my eyes brimming with love. But I’d never been pregnant, let alone given birth. I decided to investigate, unaware I must face a truth that would shatter me to the core.
A few weeks ago, I was cleaning the attic when I pulled an old box from the shelf. It was labeled “Photos – Keep” in my handwriting, though I had no memory of marking it. Dust motes danced in the bright light as I nervously opened the box.
An old box on the floor | Source: Midjourney
Inside, memories spilled out in glossy 4×6 prints: my college graduation with Mom and Dad beaming beside me, our wedding day with Daniel spinning me around the dance floor, and countless summer barbecues at the lake house.
Then, everything STOPPED.
There I was, in a hospital bed, cradling a newborn baby. My hair was plastered to my forehead with sweat, dark circles under my eyes, but my expression… I was gazing at that tiny bundle with such raw, pure love that it took my breath away.
A person holding a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
More photos followed — me holding the baby against my chest, touching its impossibly small fingers, crying as I looked into its face. In another, I was feeding the baby, my finger trapped in its tiny fist.
But that was impossible. I’d never had a baby. Never been pregnant. NEVER. Then how was this possible?
I sank to the attic floor, surrounded by the scattered photos. My hands shook as I examined each one closely, searching for signs of manipulation or editing.
But they were real… the paper was aged and the corners slightly worn.
A shocked woman | Source: Midjourney
In one picture, a distinctive mustard-yellow chair sat in the corner of the hospital room, and the curtains had an odd geometric pattern I recognized.
It was St. Mary’s Hospital, the same hospital where we’d visited my aunt after her hip surgery last year.
Daniel was at work, and I was grateful for the solitude as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. These photos showed a moment that should have been the most significant part of my life.
But I remembered nothing. Not a single second.
A mustard-yellow chair in a room | Source: Midjourney
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I gathered the photos and grabbed my car keys as soon as Daniel left for work the following morning.
I didn’t ask him anything as I wanted to find out about this mysterious baby on my own.
The hospital parking lot was nearly empty at 11 a.m. on that pleasant Tuesday. I sat in my car for five minutes, clutching the photos to my chest and trying to gather the courage to go inside.
A young mother walked past pushing a stroller, and my chest tightened with an emotion I couldn’t name.
A woman pushing a baby stroller | Source: Pexels
The reception area smelled of antiseptic and floor cleaner. A young woman with bright blue scrubs and a butterfly-shaped name tag looked up as I approached.
“Hi,” I said. “I need to access some old records of mine.”
“Look at this,” I then added, showing her the pictures. “Whose baby is this? Why am I holding it? I don’t remember anything. What’s happening?”
Without answering, she typed something on her phone and then frowned at her screen. Her fingers paused over the keypad.
“One moment, please!” she said, disappearing into a back office, whispering urgently to someone.
A hospital staff in scrubs | Source: Pexels
An older nurse emerged, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, her name tag reading “Nancy, Head Nurse.” Her eyes held a mix of concern and recognition that made my stomach twist.
“Miss, we do have records for you here, but we’ll need to contact your husband before we can discuss them.”
My stomach dropped. “What? Why?”
“Hospital policy, in cases like this. Please, let me call him now.”
A hospital staff holding documents | Source: Pexels
“No, these are my medical records. I have a right to know—”
But Nancy was already picking up the phone, her eyes never leaving my face. She dialed, and I heard the ring through the receiver.
“Sir? This is Nancy from St. Mary’s Hospital. Yes… your wife Angela is here requesting access to some medical records. Yes… I see… Could you come down right away? Yes, it’s about that… Thank you.”
A nurse holding a smartphone | Source: Pexels
My hands clenched into fists. “You know my husband? You have his number?”
“He’ll be here in 20 minutes. Would you like some water while you wait?”
“No. I want answers.”
I sank into a plastic chair, the photos clutched to my chest.
Every minute that ticked by on the waiting room clock felt like an eternity. When Daniel finally arrived, still in his work clothes, his face was ashen. He’d clearly driven here at full speed.
“Angela??”
A startled man in a hospital | Source: Midjourney
“What’s going on, Dan? Why do they have your number? Why won’t they talk to me without you?”
He turned to Nancy. “Is Dr. Peters available?”
The doctor’s office was small, with certificates covering one wall and a small window overlooking the parking lot. Dr. Peters was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and worry lines around her mouth. She folded her hands on her desk as we sat down.
“Tell her,” Dr. Peters said. “Your wife deserves to know everything.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Know what? What’s going on?”
A doctor in her office | Source: Pexels
Daniel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Six years ago, my sister Fiona came to us with a request. Do you remember how long she and Jack had been trying to have a baby?”
“Your sister? What does she have to do with this?”
“The fertility treatments weren’t working. The IVF failed three times,” he swallowed hard. “She asked if you would consider being her surrogate. And you said… yes.”
The world tilted sideways. “No. That’s not… I would remember that. A pregnancy? Being a surrogate? No, I wouldn’t—”
A shocked woman looking up | Source: Midjourney
“You were so determined to help her, Angel. You said it was the greatest gift you could give your sister-in-law. The pregnancy went perfectly. You were glowing and so happy to be helping them. But when the baby was was born—”
Dr. Peters spoke up. “You experienced a severe psychological break after delivery, Angela. The maternal hormones and bonding process were stronger than anyone anticipated. You refused to let go of the baby. When they tried to take him to Fiona, you became hysterical.”
I pressed my hands against my temples. “Stop. Please stop.”
Grayscale shot of a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
“Your mind protected itself,” Dr. Peters explained gently. “It’s called dissociative amnesia. Your psyche built a wall around the memories to shield you from the trauma of the separation. In cases of severe emotional distress, the mind can—”
“You’re telling me I forgot an entire pregnancy? A whole baby? That’s not possible! I would know. My body would know. My heart would know.”
“Angel,” Daniel reached for my hand. But I jerked away so violently my chair scraped against the floor.
Portrait of a distressed man | Source: Midjourney
“Don’t touch me! You knew? All this time, you knew? Every time we talked about maybe having kids someday, every time we walked past a baby store… you knew I had carried a child? Given birth? And given him away like he was some freaking toy?”
“Where is he?” I demanded, my throat raw and eyes red-rimmed from crying.
“Fiona moved to the countryside shortly after. The doctors thought the distance would help you recover.”
A teary-eyed woman | Source: Unsplash
“So everyone just decided?” I laughed. “Everyone just chose to let me forget my own—” I couldn’t say the word. Couldn’t acknowledge what I’d lost. “Six years? Six birthdays, first steps, first words?”
“We thought we were protecting you.”
“By lying? By watching me live in ignorance? Did you all get together and plan this? Have meetings about how to keep me in the dark?”
“By letting you heal,” Dr. Peters interjected softly. “The mind can only handle so much pain, Angela. Your psyche chose this path for a reason.”
A frustrated woman | Source: Pexels
I dashed out of the hospital as fast as my legs could carry me. Daniel caught up, ushering me into the car. I was a total mess. My fragile heart was shattered beyond repair.
That night, I slept in our guest room, surrounded by the photos.
I studied each one until my eyes burned, trying to force my mind to remember. The way I touched his tiny face. The tears on my cheeks. The love in my eyes.
I pressed my hand against my stomach, trying to imagine him there, growing, moving, being part of me. But nothing came back. Nothing.
A sad woman sitting on the bed | Source: Pexels
“Can we see him?” I asked Daniel the next day.
“We should probably ask Fiona first,” he said, his voice uncertain. “But if you’re sure, I think she’ll be okay with it.”
It took a week to convince Fiona to let us visit. Seven days of negotiations through Daniel, because I couldn’t bear to speak to her directly. Not yet.
How do you talk to someone who has your child? Who took your child?
After countless phone calls and messages, Fiona finally agreed.
A man talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
The drive to the countryside was endless. I watched the landscape change through the window, each mile bringing me closer to a truth I wasn’t sure I could face.
Fields gave way to forests, forests to suburbs. All the while, my mind spun with questions.
Would he look like me? Would some part of him recognize me? Would I feel anything at all? Would he come running to me?
Aerial view of a car on the road | Source: Unsplash
Fiona’s house was everything I’d imagined during those sleepless nights. Perfect lawn, flowers in window boxes, a red bicycle leaning against the porch, and a tire swing. Wind chimes tinkled softly and the delicious smell of something cooking wafted in the air.
My legs shook so badly I could barely walk to the door.
Fiona stood there, just as I remembered her from the family pictures. But her eyes were cautious, teary, and guarded, like a watchful mother’s.
“Angela,” she said softly. “Come in.”
A teary-eyed woman looking at someone | Source: Pexels
My gaze swept across the room, searching for the little one who held the key to my forgotten past.
And there he was, peeking around the corner. Dark curls like mine and those familiar eyes. My heart squeezed so tight I couldn’t breathe.
My son! My baby! I longed to scream, to run to him, to hold him tight. But I stood rooted to the spot, numb with heartache.
“Tommy,” Fiona called, “come meet your Aunt Angela.”
A little boy wearing a hat | Source: Unsplash
He approached shyly, a toy dinosaur clutched in one hand. “Hello, Aunt Angela.”
“Hello, Tommy!” I said, his name feeling like a prayer on my tongue.
He studied me with those big, brown eyes, head tilted slightly. “Want to see my room? I have a bunk bed! And a T-Rex that roars when you push its belly.”
“I’d love that, sweetie.”
A woman with her eyes downcast | Source: Midjourney
As he led me upstairs, chattering about his dinosaur collection and his best friend Jake and how he could ride his bike without training wheels now, I felt it.
Not a memory exactly, but an echo. A ghost of what we might have been. Of all the moments I should have had.
Later that night, in our hotel room, I took out the photos one last time. The woman in them wasn’t a stranger anymore. I understood her joy, her pain, and her sacrifice even if I couldn’t remember feeling them myself.
A woman holding a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
I touched the image of the baby, my finger tracing his tiny photostatic features.
“You okay?” Daniel asked from the doorway.
“No. But I think I will be.”
I slipped the photos back into an envelope. Some memories might stay lost and buried under years of protective fog. But now I had something more precious than memories: I had truth. And somehow, in that truth, I found the peace I didn’t know I’d been missing.
It would take time to fully come to terms with my truth, but this was a step in the right direction.
A woman holding an envelope | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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