I was drowning in hospital bills when a stranger in a suit offered me a deal: pretend to be his fiancée, and he’d save my father’s life. I had no choice but to say yes. Then I met his brother…
The day started like any other, but by noon, my entire world had collapsed.
My phone buzzed just as I was locking my apartment door. I almost didn’t answer: spam calls had been relentless lately, but something made me pick up.
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“Miss Carter?” The voice was calm and professional. “This is Dr. Reynolds. I’m calling about your father.”
“Is he okay?” My voice cracked on the last word.
There was a pause, a measured breath. “His condition has worsened. He needs surgery immediately. Without it… his chances are low.”
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I pressed my back against the doorframe, gripping the phone so hard my fingers ached.
“How much?”
The number crashed over me like a tidal wave. Too high. Impossible. I barely heard anything after that.
I just murmured a weak “I’ll figure it out” before ending the call.
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But I had nothing. No savings. No family to ask for help. Just a café job that barely covered rent.
By the time I arrived at work, my chest felt hollow. I barely noticed the smell of coffee beans or the familiar chime of the bell as I pushed through the door. I made a beeline for my manager.
“Lisa, I… I need an advance. Please. Anything you can spare.”
Lisa’s face softened, but her hands twisted nervously.
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“Sophie, I wish I could do more. Two months’ salary is the best I can offer.”
It wasn’t enough. But I forced a nod, blinking hard.
“Thank you. I… I appreciate it.”
The weight in my chest only grew heavier. Two months’ salary wasn’t nearly enough. It wouldn’t even cover half of what I needed.
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I blinked hard, willing the sting behind my eyes to disappear. Crying wouldn’t fix anything. Exhaling shakily, I turned back toward the café floor. And that’s when I felt it.
Someone was watching me.
The sensation crawled up my spine, a quiet, lingering gaze that felt too deliberate to ignore. I glanced up. A man sat near the window, his eyes locked onto me.
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He wasn’t pretending to skim a menu or glance around absentmindedly. He was watching. Listening.
The café wasn’t loud. My conversation with Lisa hadn’t been a whisper. He must have caught every desperate word. Heat rushed to my cheeks.
Who is he?
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For months, another man always sat in that spot. We had never spoken beyond polite exchanges, but I noticed him. He never rushed, never buried himself in his phone, never seemed in a hurry to leave.
He always ordered the same thing. Black coffee. No sugar. No cream.
I even started adding an extra cookie to his plate. He never said anything, never questioned it, but he always smiled before leaving.
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And I had foolishly imagined, just once, that maybe one day he’d do more than smile.
But that day, he wasn’t there. Instead, a different man sat in his place.
Older. Sharper. Dressed in a suit that radiated quiet authority. He stirred his coffee with slow, deliberate movements, his gaze flicking toward me before shifting away.
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I forced myself to move, to pretend I hadn’t noticed. But my stomach twisted.
I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know what he wanted.
And I had no idea that by the end of the night, he would change everything.
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***
Later that evening, I walked home, my body aching from the long shift, my mind tangled in numbers, hospital bills, and the crushing weight of impossibility. I barely noticed the cold creeping through my thin jacket or the flickering streetlights overhead.
I just kept walking. The streets were quiet, the usual city hum softened by the late hour.
Then, a car slowed beside me.
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I stiffened, gripping my bag a little tighter. The tinted window rolled down, and a deep, controlled voice called my name.
“Sophie.”
I froze mid-step.
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It was him. The man from the café. The one who had taken the seat of my regular customer that day—the one I always brought an extra cookie to.
Every instinct screamed at me, “Keep walking! Ignore him. This is how true crime documentaries start.”
But something about his tone made me pause. It wasn’t commanding. It wasn’t threatening. It was… certain.
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“You don’t need to be afraid,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I just want to talk.”
I turned, keeping a cautious distance. “Who are you?”
“Steven.”
He leaned slightly toward the open window, his dark eyes sharp, assessing.
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“Get in. I’ll explain everything.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
His lips twitched.
“Fair enough.”
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He exhaled, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Then I’ll talk here.”
“I’m listening.”
His gaze met mine.
“My father is handing over control of our family business soon. But there’s a condition—he wants to see me as a settled man. Stable. Engaged.”
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“And that affects me how?”
Steven studied me for a moment. Then, with a quiet certainty, he said, “Because I need a fiancée.”
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
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He let the silence stretch just long enough before adding, “And you need money. I heard you talking to your manager.”
My fingers curled into fists. “You were listening?”
“I see an opportunity, I take it. You need money. I need a fiancée. It’s simple.”
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Simple. Right. Except nothing about this feels simple at all.
“You… want me to pretend to be your fiancée?”
“A few weeks. Public appearances. My father believes I’ve finally settled down, and in return… I’ll pay for your father’s surgery.”
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I could refuse. Walk away. Pretend this conversation never happened. But then what? My father would suffer. His condition would worsen.
I didn’t remember saying yes. But an hour later, I was in a dressing room, surrounded by silk dresses and designer heels, staring at a reflection I didn’t recognize.
The girl in the mirror looked polished. Elegant. Someone who belonged in Steven’s world.
I wasn’t that girl. But for the following few weeks… I would have to be.
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***
Steven’s father’s birthday came. It was our grand debut as a couple.
The mansion was breathtaking. It wasn’t just big, the kind of place you saw in magazines, the kind of house that didn’t feel real.
A live band played soft jazz in the background, and waiters in crisp black uniforms weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne.
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I kept my shoulders back, my posture perfect, just as Steven had instructed. Every movement mattered. Every glance, every smile. We were on display.
Steven played his part flawlessly. He smiled at all the right moments and whispered small reassurances whenever I hesitated.
“Relax,” he murmured in my ear as we walked further into the room. “You look perfect.”
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His father, a tall, commanding man approached us. His sharp eyes scanned me from head to toe.
“Father,” Steven said smoothly. “This is Sophie.”
“Ah, so this is the young woman you’ve been hiding from us,” his father said, his voice rich with skepticism. “Lovely.”
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And then I saw him. My regular. The man whose absence I had felt that very morning. The one I had secretly admired for months without knowing his name.
But finally, I did. Steven’s father introduced him with a proud smile.
Oliver. Steven’s brother.
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His gaze locked onto mine, and I knew instantly—he recognized me too. He didn’t approach right away. He waited. He watched. And then, when the moment was just right, he made his move.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said casually, stepping closer.
“Oliver…”
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“You know, I’ve spent months trying to work up the nerve to ask you out. But it turns out I didn’t need to. My brother beat me to it.”
“I…”
“I came to that café every morning just to see you,” he continued, ignoring my attempt to speak. “I thought maybe one day, I’d stop being a coward and say something. But I never did.”
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He let out a quiet laugh. “Instead, I followed you home a few times. Not in a creepy way…”
“Oliver.”
“…just because I couldn’t find the right words.”
I could tell him the truth. I could explain everything and end the lie before it spiraled any further.
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But then my father’s face flashed in my mind. The hospital. The money.
I turned away, slipped my hand into Steven’s, and leaned up to kiss him.
The first time a lie had ever tasted so bitter.
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***
The next morning, Steven placed a check in front of me.
“Here.”
I stared at the paper. The amount was more than enough to cover my father’s surgery and keep him comfortable for months. My hands trembled as I picked it up. But instead of relief, all I felt was emptiness.
“You are playing your part well. Maybe we should continue this… see if there’s something real between us.”
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I set the check back on the table.
“I can’t. I thought I could pretend, but even one more day would be unbearable. The truth is… from the very beginning, I’ve been in love with your brother.”
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For a moment, Steven said nothing. His jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against the table. I braced for anger, accusations, something. But when he finally spoke, his voice was calm.
“I can’t keep you here. Thank you for the evening.”
His eyes flicked to the check on the table before he pocketed it without a word. Then, without another glance, he walked out, leaving me alone.
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***
The following night, just as I was locking up the café, the door opened.
Oliver! He stepped forward, holding something out.
“Take it,” he said, pressing the paycheck into my hands. “Even if we never see each other again. I want to help your father.”
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He knew. Steven must have told him everything.
“Oliver, I…”
“You didn’t have to lie,” he interrupted gently. “You could’ve just asked. I would have helped. No deals. No charades.”
Tears burned at the back of my eyes. I looked down at the check, then back at him.
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“I was always happy when you came to the café. I used to put an extra cookie on your plate, hoping you’d notice.”
“I noticed.”
“I made a desperate choice. I just wanted to help my father…”
“You don’t have to explain. Steven realized his mistake because of how honest you were. And because of that, I get to be here with you now.”
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The burden of guilt, of fear, of uncertainty, it wasn’t all gone, but it was lighter. Oliver glanced at the check in my hands, then back at me.
“Come on. Let’s go to the hospital and talk to the doctor about your dad’s treatment.”
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of everything settle into something new. Something right. I nodded, letting him take my hand. That time, I wasn’t walking my road alone.
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: The elderly man at my café ordered dinner for two, but no one ever came. When I learned why, I couldn’t walk away. His love had vanished a year ago—without a trace. What I uncovered changed everything.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.
I Gifted My Late Wife’s Apron to My Daughter-in-Law – Imagine My Shock When I Found It in the Dumpster
As Thanksgiving approaches, William mourns his wife, Ellen, and wonders how he’s going to spend their favorite holiday without her. But his daughter-in-law, Amelia, loves to cook and has taken to cooking for dinner. Moved by his feelings and nostalgia, William gifts her Ellen’s most loved and worn apron. But when he finds the apron in the garbage, he realizes that his hurt goes all the way back to his grief, fueling a reaction.
It was the morning before Thanksgiving, and I was feeling the full weight of Ellen not being around anymore. This was the first Thanksgiving without my wife, who had passed away almost a year ago.
A rose on a tombstone | Source: Freepik
I sat on the armchair in my bedroom and left my newspaper to the side. If Ellen were still around, she would have had an entire shopping list ready for me to get.
“It’s just the last-minute things, William,” she would say, absentmindedly doodling on the grocery list while she pondered what else we would need.
A woman writing | Source: Unsplash
“Sure, honey,” I’d always tell her, ready to go to the store and get her everything she needed.
But this year was the first time in 30 years that I wouldn’t have Ellen around for the holidays.
Instead, my son’s wife, Amelia, promised us that she would take over the Thanksgiving dinner.
A smiling young woman | Source: Freepik
“Don’t worry, Dad,” my son, Harry, told me. “Amelia cooks just like Mom, and Mom taught her a few things, too.”
I wasn’t worried about anything. If I had to be honest, I was grateful that the kitchen would be used in all its glory once again. Since Ellen passed away, Harry and Amelia had moved in with me.
A fancy kitchen | Source: Unsplash
“It won’t be for long, Dad,” Harry said. “But I don’t want you to be alone. And this way, Amelia and I can save up for a house in the meantime. We all need to heal together.”
When they moved in, I tried to put a lot of Ellen’s things away. I wanted them to feel at home, too.
Packing boxes | Source: Unsplash
I couldn’t argue with Harry because the thought of being alone in the house that Ellen and I had built was too much. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to cope without her.
I needed the support from my son.
A smiling old man | Source: Unsplash
The longer I sat in my room, wrapped in the thoughts of my wife, the more sentimental I got. Eventually, I decided to pass on something priceless to Amelia.
Opening Ellen’s closet, I pulled out her faded floral apron. It had been around for as long as I could remember, and every holiday had at least one photograph of Ellen in it.
A floral apron | Source: Pexels
There were a few food stains that just couldn’t be removed, but I thought that it added charm to the apron.
I thought that maybe if I passed the apron to Amelia, who shared Ellen’s passion for cooking, she would honor Ellen’s memory and Thanksgiving traditions.
An elderly woman cooking | Source: Pexels
The following morning, I was sitting in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal when Amelia came in, tying her hair and pulling up her sleeves.
“Hi, William,” she said. “Ready for Thanksgiving?”
A man pouring milk into a bowl | Source: Pexels
“Of course, I am,” I said, smiling at her. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do in the kitchen today.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Harry isn’t going to help at all. He’s probably going to watch the parade or look for sports on TV.”
“There’s something I want you to have,” I told her.
A person watching sport on TV | Source: Pexels
I put the folded apron onto the counter and slid it across to her.
“Ellen would have wanted you to have this, Amelia,” I said. “This was her favorite apron, and she wore it for every holiday that involved the kitchen.”
Amelia smiled at me. It was a polite smile; maybe it was a bit strained, but I dismissed it as my own sentimentality clouding my judgment.
A woman with a forced smile | Source: Pexels
She put the apron on, her face changing slightly when she saw how well-worn it was and the old food stains.
“Great, thank you,” she said. “Let’s cook!”
We spent the next few hours cooking together. Amelia did things differently than Ellen. From her cooking style to the actual ingredients used.
A woman cooking | Source: Pexels
I obeyed all her instructions and watched everything she did. It was different from what I was used to. But I still loved that Amelia was stepping up and taking control of the family holidays.
“Do you think we should do a table setting like what Ellen would have done?” she asked me.
A table setting and decor | Source: Unsplash
“Of course,” I said. “It’s just part of the tradition!”
“Then maybe we should get Harry onto that,” she suggested.
The rest of the day flew by in the kitchen with cooking preparations. Every single time I thought of Ellen, I distracted myself with another task.
A man chopping mushrooms | Source: Pexels
I watched as Amelia bustled around the kitchen in what seemed like genuine delight. As our closest family and friends began showing up for dinner, I went upstairs to freshen up for the occasion.
Everything was perfect, including Harry’s table setting. I missed Ellen throughout the evening, especially when the pies came out. My wife had a tradition of eating two slices of pie, one pecan and one pumpkin.
A pumpkin pie | Source: Pexels
“It’s the one time of year that I eat them,” she would say, spraying whipped cream all over the slices of pie on her plate.
Now, as Harry cut into the pumpkin pie, he caught my eye and smiled, handing me the first piece.
“For Mom,” he said.
Cream on a slice of pie | Source: Pexels
Everything seemed perfect. I went to bed that evening feeling as though my wife had been present. She was there, in the quiet moments after the dinner party, when I loaded the dishwasher and made myself a cup of tea.
But then, with the next morning came a different set of heartbreak.
A person stocking the dishwasher | Source: Unsplash
I was out, taking my usual walk around the block. While taking a shortcut back home through the alley behind our house, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. A glimpse of floral fabric, peering out from the top of our dumpster.
A man talking a walk | Source: Pexels
It was Ellen’s apron, discarded and partially covered in the newspaper that I had been reading and other refuse.
My heart sank, bringing a different sense of grief to me.
The apron that held so many cherished memories of Ellen was thrown away like common trash.
Outdoor trashcans | Source: Pexels
I retrieved the apron, the dew having made it damp in the crisp morning.
“How could Amelia do this?” I asked myself.
It felt like a betrayal, not just of Ellen’s memory, but of the love and trust that I had placed in her.
An old man holding his chin | Source: Unsplash
I could have let it go. I would have chalked it up to Amelia not wanting to wear something old, or even not wanting to wear something that once belonged to her mother-in-law. But it was the cold way in which she had discarded it.
Determined to teach her a lesson about respect and the value of memories, I thought that I’d sit down to tea with her and talk about cooking. It was the one thing that we constantly bonded over.
A cup of tea | Source: Pexels
Amelia agreed, unaware that I knew about the apron. She followed me up the stairs, and I led her to the attic.
“Come on,” I said. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Oh, William,” she said when she looked around the attic and saw the neatly preserved boxes.
An attic with stacked boxes and clothing | Source: Midjourney
“I’ve never been in here,” she said. “I didn’t know that we had an attic in this house.”
I stepped aside, allowing her to get into the room properly.
“Since you didn’t find value in the apron, maybe you’ll find something here that you won’t just throw away,” I said, my voice colder than I intended.
A woman covering her face with her hands | Source: Pexels
Amelia, visibly uncomfortable, shifted from foot to foot.
“William, I…” she began, her voice trailing off when she saw the apron hanging from a hook across the room.
I stood in silence as she tried to apologize, but her words seemed hollow.
A woman holding her face | Source: Pexels
“Look,” I said. “Maybe I forced it onto you, and I’m sorry about that, Amelia. But at the same time, I just thought that it would have been something to pass on to you. Not to mention that it was comforting for Harry and me to see.”
She nodded, nervously looking at the door. She was probably wondering if I had told Harry about the incident. I hadn’t. I didn’t want to create any unpleasantness between them.
A couple sitting uncomfortably | Source: Pexels
But I still felt like a rift had been caused between us. As we continued to live under the same roof, I kept to myself as much as possible. I wasn’t angry with Amelia. I was hurt.
I was hurt on behalf of myself, of Ellen, and even Harry, who didn’t know any better.
I knew that I would get over it eventually, but for now, I just needed to let myself grieve my wife, and keep her memory strong.
A smiling old couple | Source: Pexels
What would you have done?
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