Bright Mind

07/26/2025

07/26/2025

On the street, a woman gave me a boy and a suitcase full of money, and sixteen years later I discovered I was the heir to a billionaire.
""Take him, I beg you!"" The woman shoved a worn leather suitcase in my hands and pushed the boy toward me.
I almost dropped the bag of food; I was carrying treats from the city to our neighbors in the village. ""Sorry, what? I don't know you...""
""His name is Misha. He's three and a half."" The woman gripped my sleeve so tightly her knuckles turned white. ""In the suitcase... there's everything he needs. Please don't leave him!""
The boy pressed himself against my leg. He looked up at me with his huge brown eyes, his tousled light curls, and a scratch on his cheek. ""You can't be serious!"" I tried to move away, but the woman was already pushing us toward the train car. ""You can't just do this out of nowhere!"" The police, social services…
""There's no time for explanations!"" Desperation echoed in her voice. ""I have no way out, do you understand? None!""
A group of vacationers pushed us, shoved us into the crowded carriage. I turned around: the woman stood on the platform, pressing her palms to her face. Tears streamed down her fingers.
""Mom!"" Misha gestured toward the door, but I stopped him.
The train lurched. The woman grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared into the twilight.
Somehow, we sat down on a bench. The boy curled up next to me and sniffed at my sleeve. The suitcase weighed on my arm; heavy, what? Bricks inside?
""Auntie, will Mom come?""
""Yes, she will, little one. I'm sure she will.""
The neighbors in the carriage looked at us curiously. A young woman with a strange child and a rickety suitcase: an unusual sight, to say the least.
All the way, one thought kept going through my head: what kind of madness is this? Maybe a joke? But what kind of joke: the child was real, warm, and smelled of baby shampoo and cookies.
Peter was stacking firewood in the yard. When he saw me with the child, he froze, holding a log.
""Masha, where did he come from?""
""Not where, but from whom. Meet Misha.""
I told him everything while I cooked semolina for the child. My husband frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose, a sure sign he was thinking hard. ""We need the police. Immediately!""
""Peter, which police? What do I tell them? Did someone hand me a child at the police station like a puppy?""
""What do you suggest?""
Misha gobbled up the porridge, smearing it on his chin. He was hungry, but he tried to eat carefully, holding the spoon steady. A polite boy. ""Let's at least see what's in the suitcase,"" I nodded.
We sat Misha down in front of the TV and put on ""You'll See!"" The suitcase opened with a click.
I gasped. Money. Wads and wads of bills wrapped around wads of bills.
""Oh my God!"" Peter exhaled.
I grabbed a wad at random. Five-thousand-ruble bills, hundred-ruble bills. I guessed there were about thirty wads, no less. ""Fifteen million,"" I whispered. ""Peter, this is a fortune.""
We looked at each other. And at the boy laughing while watching a wolf chase a hare.
Nikolai, Peter's old friend, found a way out for us. He came over a week later, and we drank tea and chatted.
""We can register him as a foundling,"" he said, scratching his bald head. As if he'd been found on the doorstep. A friend works in social services; she'll help us with the paperwork.
Although it would require… some organizational expenses.
By then, Misha had settled in. He slept in our room, on Peter's old camp bed, ate oatmeal and jam for breakfast, and chased me around the yard.
He named the chickens: Pestrushka, Chernushka, Belyanka. Only at night did he sometimes whine, calling for his mother.
""What if they find his parents?"" he doubted.
""They'll find them, so be it. But for now, the boy needs a roof and a warm meal.""
The paperwork was drawn up in three weeks. Mikhail Petrovich Berezin, officially our adopted son. We told the neighbors he was a nephew from the city, whose parents died in an accident. We handled the money carefully. First, we bought Misha clothes; his old ones were good quality, but he'd outgrown them. Then, books, building blocks, and a scooter.
Peter insisted on making repairs: the roof was leaking, the stove was smoking.
""For the boy's sake, I'm trying,"" he complained, nailing tiles. ""So he doesn't catch a cold.""
Misha grew like a w**d. At four, he already knew all his letters; at five, he could read and do simple math. Our teacher, Anna Ivanovna, gave up: ""You're raising a prodigy! He should study in the city, in a special school.""
But we were afraid of the city. What if someone found out? What if that woman changed her mind and came looking for him?
At seven, we finally made up our minds: we sent him to the city gym. We drove him there and back; luckily we had money for a car. The teachers were full of praise: ""Your son has a photographic memory!"" exclaimed the math teacher.
""And his pronunciation!"" repeated the English teacher. ""Like a British man by birth!""
At home, Misha helped Peter in the workshop. My husband opened a carpentry shop and made custom furniture. The boy could spend hours working with a plane, carving wooden animals.
""Dad, why do all the boys have grandmothers and I don't?"" he asked once during dinner.
Peter and I exchanged glances. We had been waiting and preparing for that question.
""They passed away a long time ago, son. When you were little.""
He nodded seriously and didn't ask any more questions. But I saw him—sometimes he would reflect deeply, looking closely at our photos.
At fourteen, he won first place in the regional physics Olympiad. At sixteen, professors from Moscow State University came to try to recruit him for preparatory courses. They said: a natural talent, the future of science, a Nobel Prize winner.
And I looked at him and saw that scared but confident boy from the station. I wonder if his mother is still alive. Does she remember him?...
Continue in the comments.

07/26/2025

MY HUSBAND ABONDONED ME DURING LABOR IN A CAR - SO HE COULD GO ON VACATION WITH HIS FAMILY
My name is Emily, and I’m 29. I’m in the final stretch of my first pregnancy, and every day feels like a mix of anticipation and quiet anxiety. It’s like standing on the edge of something beautiful, but terrifying.
My husband, Lucas, is 33 and works in the financial sector. He often tells me how stressful his job is and insists he needs weekends to decompress. So, almost every Friday, he drives two hours to his parents’ place. I’ve grown used to the silence at home—just me, the growing weight of my belly, and the hum of the refrigerator. Lucas rarely pitches in. One afternoon, I asked if he could help finish setting up the nursery. He just shrugged and said, “You’re on leave now. You’ve got the time. I don’t.”
I still remember one humid Saturday when I wrestled a heavy bag of rice from the trunk. I stood in the driveway, dripping with sweat, silently praying someone would lend a hand. But Lucas was out fishing with his dad. When I texted him, all I got was: You’ll manage. You’re tough.
One time I forgot to buy his favorite ground coffee, and he snapped, “What else do you even do all day? Eat? Nap?” It stung. But I said nothing. I knew he’d blame it on my “mood swings.” So, I bit back my anger and told myself: Just hang on. Once the baby’s here, everything will change. But somewhere deep inside, I feared I was lying to myself.
One morning, I woke up early, aching from head to toe. I shuffled to the kitchen and made Lucas a fresh pot of coffee, placing it beside his breakfast. He came in, barely looked up from his phone.
“The toast’s burned. Can’t you even get that right?”
I whispered, “The toaster’s been weird lately. I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “My mom probably made something amazing already.”
“Oh, and don’t forget,” Lucas added, “we’re having dinner at Mom’s tonight. Bring something decent this time. She still jokes about that hideous scarf you gave her last Christmas.”
“I think I’ll stay home,” I said quietly. “The due date’s getting close, and I’m exhausted.”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “There you go again. You’re not sick, Emily, you’re just pregnant. My mom worked until the day I was born. You? You just blog about soup recipes and sunsets.”
Then, one Saturday, Lucas called out from the hallway, oddly upbeat. “Emily, pack a bag. We’re heading to Breckenridge with my parents next week. A little mountain getaway before baby arrives.”
I stared at him. “Next week? Lucas, the doctor said I could go into labor at any moment.”
He shrugged, unfazed. “You’re always overthinking. Fresh air will do you good. Mom says mountain air helps women relax.”
✅ Click to read what happened next in the first comment below!

07/26/2025

12 Years After Abandoning Us, My Mom Returned and Asked for a Second Chance—Dad Said Yes… But What About the Stepmother?
The rain poured down as if it wanted to wash away the entire city. I stood by the window of our home in Portland, watching the drops of water roll down the glass, blurred like the memory of my birth mother—Catherine, whom I hadn’t seen since I was ten.
That night, twelve years ago, she left without a goodbye, abandoning me and my dad in a house colder than the Oregon winter outside. My father, once a thriving real estate agent, had lost everything after the 2008 cra.sh. Catherine, eyes distant and hardened, left only a note: “I can’t live like this.”
Since that day, I stopped believing in promises.
When I was fifteen, Dad remarried. Her name was Rachel, and she entered our lives quietly. She didn’t try to take my mother’s place or act overly kind. She just… showed up. She made warm meals, listened when I needed to talk, and over time, I began to call her “Mom” without anyone asking me to. With Rachel’s support, my father slowly rebuilt himself. By fifty, he had started his own small but stable property management company. Our house, once heavy with silence, started to feel like a home again.
And then tonight, as I turned twenty-two, the doorbell rang through the downpour.
Dad answered it, and I heard a voice—familiar and distant.
“Daniel, it’s me… Catherine.”
I froze. My pulse spiked.
There she was. Standing at our front door, drenched in rain. Her hair longer, face older, yet still elegant. But her eyes were no longer proud. They were tired. “Can I come in?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Dad looked at her, saying nothing at first. Then he stepped aside.
Catherine sat in the living room with a mug of hot tea Rachel handed her. She told us she had been living in Los Angeles, working in fashion—but never really finding success. She said she regretted leaving. That she wanted to fix things.
“I want to come back, Daniel. I want us to start over,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
I sat in the far corner of the room, listening in silence. My heart stayed cold. Twelve years. Not one phone call. Not one birthday card. And now she was back, like it had all been a bad dream she just woke up from.
Dad stayed strangely composed. “It’s good that you came. But you’ll need time. And so will we.”
Catherine nodded quickly, like she feared he’d shut the door again.
Rachel, silent until then, came out with a second blanket and gently draped it over her. “Stay the night. It’s too cold to be out there,” she said gently. But there was a flicker of steel in her eyes.
The days that followed were surreal. Catherine stayed. She tried to talk to me—asked about college, my friends, my major. But every question pushed me further away. I couldn’t forget that night when she left, when I cried holding the stuffed owl she’d given me the year before. Still, what confused me most was Dad. He was… warm to her. He chatted with her. They even went to lunch one day.
Rachel kept smiling. Kept cooking. But she had started to talk less. She watched from the background as Catherine floated back into our lives.
I feared the worst—that my dad, out of nostalgia or guilt, would let Catherine back in and forget the woman who stayed.
Then one evening, the truth exploded.
We had just finished dinner when Catherine stood at the head of the table. “I need to say something,” she said, glancing around. Her tone was confident, almost rehearsed.
“I want to come back—for real. I want this family whole again.”
She turned to Rachel.
“Rachel, thank you for taking care of Taylor and Daniel. But this is my family. And now that I’m back, I think it’s time for you to leave. I don’t want drama. I just want what’s mine.”
My mouth dropped open. Rachel’s hands clutched her glass tighter, but she didn’t respond. Not right away.
Then Dad stood. Quietly. Firmly. He walked into the office and returned with a thick envelope.
“You’re right, Catherine,” he said. “This is your family. But you need to know something first.”
He slid the documents across the table. Full story in 1st comment

07/26/2025

AT HER FATHER'S FUNERAL, A LITTLE GIRL WHISPERED "DADDY'S JUST SLEEPING" - SECONDS LATER, EVERYONE FROZE IN SH0CK
During her father’s funeral, a little girl looked at the coffin and shouted that daddy was just sleeping — and at that moment, the guests discovered something horrifying 😱😱
The funeral proceeded as usual — slow, solemn, and silent, broken only by muffled sobs and the priest’s words. In the center of the hall stood a coffin lined with white fabric. Inside lay a young man, taken too soon by a tragic acci:dent. Standing nearby was his wife, pale and distant, and their young daughter — a two-year-old girl in a black dress.
The little girl stood quietly, holding onto the edge of the coffin. No one expected much from her — at that age, people believed children didn’t yet understand what death meant.
At the very end of the ceremony, the girl was brought closer to the coffin. She looked at her father for a long time. At first silently, then she frowned, and suddenly — she screamed out in despair:
Her voice was so filled with anguish that the entire room froze.
She reached toward her father's face, gently stroked his cheek, and through tears kept repeating:
— Daddy, wake up! Don’t sleep! Daddy, open your eyes!
Some lowered their heads, thinking it was just a tragic outburst from a child. Others sobbed quietly. But then the girl stood up straight, pointed to her father's face, and said:
— He’s scared! Daddy told me: “I’m here, help me!” He’s inside! He didn’t leave!
A deadly silence fell over the room. And then something terrifying happened 😱😱 To be continued in the first comment 👇👇

07/26/2025

I CAME BACK FROM MY HONEYMOON & FOUND A HUGE BLACK BOX IN MY HALLWAY — IT SHATTERED MY WORLD.
I recently married the love of my life. Right after the wedding, we flew off to the islands for our honeymoon.We asked my mom to watch the house during the time we were away.
When we came back, we were sh0cked to find a black box in the hallway.
On the table was a note that read, "Lori, open this alone!"
Seeing the note, my husband suggested we open the box together, just in case it was something dan.ge.rous. I trusted him completely, so I agreed.
THAT WAS A MISTAKE!
As soon as I opened the box, my husband shouted, "THIS CAN'T BE! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!"
Tears began streaming down my face because inside the box was ....Read full story in the 1st comment⬇️

07/26/2025

I never told my son about the inheritance. A week after the wedding, his new wife showed up—papers in hand.
It started with a single missed call. No voicemail. Just a local number. Familiar enough to give me pause, like a pebble tucked into my shoe.
I stared at it longer than I should have, coffee growing cold in my hands. Then the phone lit up again. Same number. This time, I let it ring twice before answering.
“Hi, Margaret!”
That voice—too smooth. Polished like glass.
Rachel.
I hadn’t heard from her since the wedding. That was five days ago. Five long, silent days where the only sounds in my house were the humming refrigerator and the stubborn tick of a wall clock that’s always ten minutes off.
“How are you?” she asked, chipper like a weather girl on local TV.
“I’m fine,” I answered. And I was. Or at least, I’d learned how to sound like it.
Then silence. Not awkward—just… rehearsed.
“So, Tyler and I were thinking,” she said, “we’d swing by for a quick visit. Nothing formal. Just wanted to say thank you again. We really appreciated you coming.”
Her words tightened near the end, like a smile drawn too wide.
And something stirred in me—the same quiet voice that had spoken up during the reception when I saw my place card at the far-back table.
The same one that whispered during the speeches, when not a single person said my name.
I looked out the window. The lake sat still, like it was holding its breath.
“What time?” I asked.
“Would now be okay?”
I hesitated for just a second.
“…Sure,” I said.
Exactly twenty-two minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Rachel was wearing a cream-colored coat and that same perfect red lipstick from the wedding—it didn’t smudge when she smiled.
She wasn’t alone.
A man stood next to her. Neatly dressed, holding a leather briefcase, eyes moving too fast around the room like he was assessing square footage.
“I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” she said sweetly.
“It’s fine,” I replied, stepping aside.
They didn’t ask to sit. Didn’t remove their coats. They just stood there, scanning.
The man gave a curt nod. “Daniel,” he said. That’s all.
He placed the briefcase gently on my dining table, careful like it might leave a mark.
Rachel drifted over to the window, pretending to admire the lake. She hummed something tuneless, like a lullaby nobody meant to sing out loud.
Then she turned to me. “So,” she said lightly, “there’s just a quick thing we wanted to go over. Paperwork stuff. Nothing major—super routine.”
My stomach tightened—not from fear.
From knowing.
That sharp, quiet knowing when you realize you’ve just been walked into a room, and you’re not going to leave it the same.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
This wasn’t about gratitude.
It never was. Full story in 1st comment 😮👇

07/26/2025

“SIR, SHE ADDED SOMETHING TO YOUR CAKE!” THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL WAR.NED THE WEALTHY MAN...
Edward Miller, 42, stepped out of his sleek black car, adjusting his designer cufflinks. A self-made millionaire known for his philanthropy, tonight wasn’t about business—it was personal. He planned to propose.
As he walked toward the upscale restaurant, a small tug at his coat made him pause. Turning, he saw a frail little girl, around six, in ragged clothes and worn-out shoes. Her cheeks were smudged, eyes cast downward.
“Please, mister,” she said quietly.
He recognized her. A week ago, he’d given her money near Central Park. This time, as she turned to leave, he asked gently, “What’s your name?”
“…Maya,” she murmured.
“Thank you, Maya. Stay safe, okay?”
She nodded, but glanced toward the restaurant before walking away, a flicker of concern on her face.
Inside, Isabella sat waiting—elegant and graceful in a silk dress, her smile glowing in the candlelight. “You’re late,” she teased, kissing his cheek.
Dinner flowed smoothly: laughter, wine, soft glances. Then dessert arrived—a decadent chocolate mousse cake dusted with gold leaf. Just as the waiter placed it down, Isabella excused herself.
That’s when it happened.
A blur rushed through the dining room—Maya.
She stopped, breathless, by Edward’s table.
“Sir,” she said urgently. “Please don’t eat that cake. I saw her—she poured something into it. I was watching through the window.”
Edward froze. “What do you mean?”
“I swear,” Maya insisted. “She did something to it. Please don’t eat it.”
And then she ran off, vanishing into the night.
Edward stared at the cake, uneaten. Logic told him to ignore the warning—but something about Maya’s voice stuck with him. Something he couldn’t ignore...
👇 What happens next changes everything. Full story in the comments.

07/26/2025

The Mute Child Let Out a Sudden Scream at His Grandmother’s Funeral — What He Said Left Everyone Horrified
Mary Dawson’s funeral was filled with a heavy silence. Her daughter, Clara, knelt next to her mute son, her hands trembling when she gripped his small shoulders. Jason, Clara’s younger brother, stood by the grave, his eyes dry. Some whispered that Jason appeared almost cold, detached—an observation that, in hindsight, would take on a new significance.
Mary’s sudden d:ea:th had been ruled an acc:id:ent. She was found at the bottom of her staircase, bl:00d pooling beneath her head, her wrist b:e:nt at an unnatural angle. Police responded quickly, but after a brief investigation, concluded she had simply slipped and fallen.
Yet, Clara couldn’t shake her unease. Recently, her mother had spoken of changing the safe’s password and updating her will. Days before her passing, Mary had w:arned Clara, “If anything happens to me, don’t trust everything you see.”
When the funeral bell rang and the casket began its descent, Michael, who had never spoken, suddenly trembled in his mother’s arms. Then, with a force that startled everyone, he screamed:
“He pushed her down the stairs! I saw it with my own eyes!”
𝗗𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘄 👇

07/25/2025

Hosting my mother-in-law’s birthday should’ve been a celebration. Instead, it turned into a breaking point that shattered the illusion of family harmony and left me questioning my place in my own home.
When I met Torin, I was fresh out of grad school and barely sleeping between architecture projects and ramen dinners. What I didn’t know at the time was that this man would have my back forever, even when it was against his own family.
When I met my future husband, he was just starting as the new marketing guy at the firm, where I was a junior architect. Torin was what some people would call “unattractive.” He was a little clumsy, with a crooked smile and a habit of wearing unmatched socks.
Torin also stood out because he walked in that day wearing a suit two sizes too big! I couldn’t stop laughing!
He turned beet red. “Laundry day, I had to borrow my dad’s suit.”
“Clearly,” I replied.
That was it; we were inseparable after.
Torin and I dated for four years and got married two years after welcoming our daughter, Zinnia. She was the one who really grounded us, and made our dream feel real.
From the very beginning, Torin and I always dreamed of living by the coast. I’m not talking about a yacht-club lifestyle. We wanted the real, simple kind of life, with mornings surrounded by sea air and coffee, and afternoons where your hair smelled like salt.
We believed it would be the perfect place for Zinnia to grow up barefoot and curious.
But everyone was against the idea and told us not to.
“It’s too far from family,” his mom warned. “You’ll regret isolating yourselves,” his dad added. “But what about holidays?” asked every relative with an opinion.
But we didn’t care. We knew what we wanted for ourselves and our little family.
We worked hard to manifest our dream. We made sacrifices like skipping vacations, eating in, and taking every freelance gig we could. And after nearly seven years of saving and planning, we finally bought a cozy little house three blocks from the ocean!
The place needed some work, but it was ours. It was a small white cottage with chipped paint and promise.
Torin and I poured our hearts into it, sanding every beam and painting every wall to make it a home.
Then the visitors started coming.
At first, it was sweet. Torin’s parents, Vesper and Elton, came for weekends. His sister, Saffron, brought her twins, and I made guest beds, crab dip, and playlists for beach bonfires.
But the stays got longer, and the visits more frequent. Then came the casual claims.
One morning, Elton stood at the kitchen window holding coffee and said, “This view beats ours any day. I could get used to this.”
I laughed nervously and said something that would later haunt me. “You should come more often, then.”
He smirked. “Oh, we will.”
Vesper chimed in from the dining room. “I told him we should just move in. You have the space.”
I blinked. “Well, not really, I mean, Zinnia’s room is already tight and—”
She cut me off. “Don’t be silly. Family comes first, and we’re not strangers.”
The next time they came, it was unannounced.
They pulled into the driveway like they owned it, Elton toting a fishing rod and Vesper carrying grocery bags like she was restocking her own pantry.
Torin pulled me aside in the garage. “I know, I know. I’ll say something if this keeps happening.”
“It’s already happening,” I whispered. “We didn’t even know they were coming.”
“I’ll talk to them. Just not today. It’s the twins’ birthday weekend.”
But the “talk” never happened, and things got worse.
Saffron sent me a text asking, “What should we bring for Easter brunch at your place?” as if it had already been decided.
“Did you plan Easter?” I asked Torin that night.
He shrugged. “I mean... we did it last year, and the year before that.”
“So now it’s just here? Forever?”
He hesitated. “They love this house, and you’re so good at hosting.”
I felt like I was sinking. “I didn’t sign up to be the family resort manager.”
But the pattern stuck. Thanksgiving? Defaulted to us. Christmas? Saffron texted me in early November asking if we were going to do matching pajamas again. Vesper began calling our guest room “hers!”
The kicker came last summer when Elton called Torin and said, “We’re coming down for a week. Hope that’s cool.”
My husband told him, “We’ve got a lot going on, Dad. Zinnia has a school project and the guest room’s not ready.”
His father laughed. “We’ll make do. Vesper’s excited. She says she sleeps better near the ocean air.”
When I overheard that call, I finally snapped.
“Babe, they don’t ask, they just declare. We are not their vacation property!”
He rubbed his temples. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll draw the line.”
Except he didn’t, and that line kept getting rubbed out, rewritten, and erased again.
Sadly, my own family wasn’t around to back me up. My parents passed in a car accident when I was in college. I had cousins in Canada, but we weren’t close. I had no siblings; it was just me. And while Torin’s family was loud and ever-present, I was the one constantly biting my tongue in my own home.
Then came Vesper’s birthday last weekend.
I should have seen it coming.

07/25/2025

My Pregnant Sister Was Treated Like a Maid — So I Taught Her Husband a Lesson He’d Never Forget
===
I showed up at my sister’s place expecting a cozy visit—not to find her nine months pregnant and running around like the hired help while her husband lounged like royalty. What happened next? Let’s just say it involved a watermelon, a ridiculous wager, and a reality check he’ll never live down. Some lessons come loud, messy, and hilariously unforgettable.
I hadn’t seen my sister in over a year, and with a business trip bringing me to her city, I decided to tack on a few extra days to visit. I needed rest, family time, and the kind of grounding only a sibling can provide.
But the moment Maya opened the front door, I knew this visit would be anything but relaxing.
She was nine months pregnant, visibly exhausted, her hair clinging to her damp forehead. One hand balanced her belly while the other gripped a heavy basket of laundry. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, but the smile didn’t reach all the way.
Behind her, slouched on the couch with a gaming controller and headset strapped to his head, was her husband, Jason. He barely nodded in my direction, too busy shouting into the mic as bullets flew on the screen.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Maya murmured, leading me inside and lowering the laundry basket with a grunt. “Sorry the place is a mess.”
I looked around. The place was not a mess. But it was clear she was doing everything herself — cooking, cleaning, folding tiny onesies that I imagined their baby would be wearing in just a few weeks.
Dinner that night was pasta — a little overcooked and lukewarm by the time Maya sat down.
Jason took one bite and scowled. “It’s cold,” he muttered before grabbing the plate and disappearing upstairs.
I blinked. “Did he just…?”
Maya gave a tired shrug. “He’s been stressed with work.”
“Work?” I echoed. “He’s been playing video games all evening.”
She shot me a look. “Please, not now. I’m too tired to argue.”
I helped clear the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and folded baby blankets alongside her. But all I could think about was Jason — the man who was supposed to be her partner, her support system. Instead, he acted like some overgrown teenager being forced to live with a roommate he barely liked.
The next morning, I found him in the kitchen, staring blankly at his phone while a slice of burnt toast sat on his plate.
“Morning,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. “So, uh… Maya’s due any day now. Maybe it’s time you started pulling your weight a bit?”
He snorted. “She’s fine. It’s what women do. My mom handled four kids and never complained.”
I almost dropped my mug. “You think she’s fine? You think hauling laundry, cooking, cleaning, and prepping for labor counts as ‘fine’?”
He shrugged. “She wanted this baby.”
I breathed in sharply through my nose. “Jason, I bet you wouldn’t last a single day doing what she does.”
That got his attention. He looked up from his phone and gave me a smirk. “Is that a challenge?”
“Oh, it’s absolutely a challenge,” I replied, folding my arms. “If you manage to do all her chores for one day, while wearing a pregnancy simulator, I’ll be your maid for life. But if you fail, you start acting like a real partner — starting now.”
He laughed. “Deal. Sounds easy enough.”
I grinned sweetly. “Perfect. We start tomorrow morning.”
What he didn’t realize was that I had a very specific plan. That afternoon, while Maya rested on the couch, I headed to the grocery store and found the heaviest, roundest watermelon I could lift. Back home, Maya and I hollowed it out, lined it with plastic wrap, and rigged up some straps using an old backpack harness. With a little creativity and duct tape, we created a makeshift pregnancy belly — complete with awkward weight, sloshing movement, and discomfort galore.
At 7:30 a.m. sharp, I burst into their room. “Rise and shine, Jason. Time to meet your new belly.”
He groaned but reluctantly sat up. “That’s the challenge?”
Maya walked in, smiling sweetly, and handed him a list.
Jason’s To-Do List:..
He looked at me, horrified... (continue reading in the 1st comment)