Category: Talegate

I should’ve known something was off when I moved into Maplewood Lane. The street had an eerie sort of perfection—lawns trimmed with military precision, mailboxes standing in obedient rows, and not a single rogue garden gnome to break the monotony. It was the kind of place where the biggest scandal was probably someone using store-bought potato salad at the block party.

Then I met Nancy.

She was my next-door neighbour, and from the moment we first spoke, she felt like an old friend. She had this effortless charm, the kind of person who could make you feel comfortable even if you were standing in your pyjamas clutching a box of half-unpacked kitchenware (which, for the record, I was). We talked about everything—books, weird history facts, how I once accidentally attended a funeral thinking it was a poetry reading. Classic me.

Nancy became my person in the neighbourhood. We had porch wine nights. She taught me the secret to getting a dog to stop barking (it involves interpretive dance, apparently). Life in Maplewood Lane started to feel… settled. Which is why it was so unsettling when Nancy vanished.

Not just left town. Not just ghosted me like a bad Tinder date. Vanished.

One morning, I knocked on her door. No answer. Peeking through her windows, I saw… nothing. No furniture, no decorations. It was like no one had ever lived there. That’s when the true weirdness began.

I went to the HOA president, Mr. Kensington (a man with the energy of an unpaid mall Santa), and asked about Nancy. He blinked at me as if I’d asked if the sky was made of spaghetti.

“There is no Nancy,” he said.

I laughed, assuming he was being his usual unhelpful self. “You know, my neighbour? The one I’ve been hanging out with for weeks?”

He frowned. “Amanda, that house has been vacant for years. Are you feeling okay?”

I stared at him. I stared at the house. I stared at my own reflection in his disturbingly polished mailbox. Was I okay?

Determined to prove my sanity, I launched a full-scale investigation. I searched for any trace of Nancy—social media, old mail, Google searches. Nothing. No photos. No records. I even checked my phone for texts or calls, but there was nothing from her. My stomach twisted.

I went back to my house, sat down, and forced myself to think. Had I imagined Nancy? That would be ridiculous. I mean, I may have had my share of stress-induced hallucinations before (looking at you, ‘giant spider in my shower’ incident), but an entire person? That’s next-level delusional.

That night, I barely slept. My brain buzzed with questions. Then, at 3:14 AM, I woke up with a jolt. I wasn’t sure what had startled me—maybe a sound, maybe just an instinct. But as I sat up, my eyes landed on my reflection in the mirror across the room.

I gasped.

I was wearing Nancy’s sweater.

Panic punched me in the chest. I scrambled to my closet and found more clothes that weren’t mine—but somehow, they were. A lavender coat. A pair of sneakers. A book with Nancy scrawled in the margins. My pulse hammered.

I turned to my bedside table and saw something I hadn’t noticed before. A driver’s license. I picked it up with trembling fingers.

The name on the ID wasn’t Amanda.

It was Nancy.

The walls of my reality cracked open. I was Nancy. Or at least, I had been. But then… who was Amanda?

Memories surged, flashes of a life I had pushed away. A trauma too heavy to bear. The truth settled in like a lead weight: I had invented Amanda to escape my own past. When I moved into Maplewood Lane, I wasn’t meeting Nancy—I was remembering her. Remembering me.

Nancy had vanished because she had never really existed in the way I thought. I had been trying so hard to forget what had happened—whatever it was—that my mind had split me in two. Amanda was my escape, my new identity. But now, the illusion was crumbling, and the real question was: did I want to remember everything?

As the first light of morning filtered through my blinds, I realized I didn’t have a choice.

It was time to find out who I really was.

The first thing you should know about me is that I am not easily impressed. The second thing? I am deaf, which makes me an excellent judge of character because I don’t get distracted by tone. Words are my currency, and people don’t realize how much they say when they think no one is listening.

Which is how I ended up witnessing a murder.

It was supposed to be an ordinary Tuesday night. I had just finished painting—abstract chaos in blues and golds, a personal therapy session on canvas—when I saw them. Two men on the rooftop across from my apartment. One in an expensive suit, the other in desperation. I watched as the suited man gestured; his face contorted with anger. The desperate one pleaded, his hands fluttering in what I recognized as the universal language of “Please, I can explain.”

Then came the shove.

One moment, he was standing. The next, he was airborne. Then not airborne. Then very, very dead.

My stomach lurched, but my instincts kicked in. I grabbed my sketchpad and started drawing everything I saw—the man’s angular jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his lips formed words I could understand through the art of lip-reading.

You should’ve kept your mouth shut.

Chilling, right? I thought so too.

 

The Problem with Witnessing a Murder

I didn’t call the cops. Not immediately. Because I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to know that when you’re a deaf woman living alone and you call the cops saying, “Hey, I think a rich guy just yeeted a dude off a roof,” they don’t exactly roll out the red carpet. So instead, I did what any logical person would do: I texted my best friend, Claire.

Me: Pretty sure I just saw a murder. Claire: Girl, is this another ‘Pizza guy scammed me’ situation? Me: I TOLD YOU, he took the tip and never came back. Claire: Fair. Okay. Details?

Before I could text back, something made my skin crawl. Movement. Across the street. The killer was looking directly at me.

I froze.

Then he raised his phone. A few taps. A glance back at me. My phone buzzed in my hand.

Unknown Number: I saw you too.

Oh Sh!t

I don’t know if you’ve ever had the unique pleasure of realizing you’ve been marked for elimination, but it does wonders for your adrenaline. I locked everything—windows, doors, my cat’s food container (because priorities)—and paced.

Claire was already on her way over because she has a dangerous addiction to drama. “Okay,” she said, busting into my apartment. “Give me the details, Nancy Drew.”

I showed her my sketches. We ran an image search. And that’s when things got interesting.

Mr. Suit wasn’t just some shady businessman. He was Jon Sterling, a name dripping with privilege and power. Real estate mogul. Philanthropist. Probably owned several islands.

“So why’s he tossing people off buildings?” Claire whispered.

I didn’t have time to answer because my lights flickered.

Then my power cut out completely.

I grabbed my phone. New text message.

Unknown Number: Let’s talk.

 

The Betrayal

I don’t remember deciding to run. I just knew I had to. Claire and I bolted down the emergency stairs. I wasn’t about to wait around for some rich murderer to make me his next rooftop decoration.

We made it outside. And right into the arms of a man I trusted.

Detective Harris. My neighbor. My safe person.

“Thank God,” I signed. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

Harris frowned, glancing at Claire. Then at my phone. Then he did something that made my blood run cold.

He took my sketchpad and flipped through it. Slowly. Like he already knew what was inside.

“Why did you draw this?” he asked.

Claire and I exchanged a look. “Because I saw it,” I signed.

Harris sighed. “We’ve got a problem.”

I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the problem.

“The murder wasn’t real,” he continued. “It was staged. And the real crime? Is you.”

 

The Setup

My stomach flipped. “What do you mean, I’m the crime?”

“You saw exactly what we wanted you to see.”

Jon Sterling stepped out from the shadows, perfectly pressed suit and all. “And now you’ve sketched the perfect confession.”

I realized what had happened too late. The entire thing had been orchestrated to frame me.

Sterling smiled, and Harris—Detective Freaking Harris—handed him my sketches like they were evidence.

I was supposed to take the fall for a murder that never actually happened.

“You’re gonna wish you never looked out that window,” Sterling murmured.

And just like that, the world turned upside down.

 

Because I’m Not Going Down Like That

Here’s the thing: being underestimated is my superpower.

I played along. Let them think I was scared out of my mind (I was). Then, when Sterling turned away for a second, I did what every self-respecting woman should do when trapped in an alley with a corrupt billionaire and a two-faced cop.

I kicked Harris where it counted, grabbed Claire’s pepper spray, and misted Sterling like he was an over-sunned houseplant.

We ran.

Straight to the police. The real police.

And would you believe it? Turns out people get very interested when you present them with sketches of a high-profile conspiracy and a billionaire clutching his eyes, screaming about pepper spray.

 

The Aftermath

Sterling got arrested. Harris got exposed. Claire got a dramatic retelling of the story at every brunch for the next decade. And me?

Well, I got a lot of new paintings out of the experience. Some of them are even hanging in a gallery now.

Oh, and I got a security system. Because once is enough, thanks.

Moral of the story?

Sometimes, silence isn’t just golden. It’s survival.

By the time I hit forty, I had accomplished two extraordinary things: I had married eleven times, and I had become a widow… eleven times. You’d think after the third or fourth, someone—anyone—would have gotten suspicious. But nope. Either I was just that good, or people are as oblivious as I always suspected.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I never set out to be a serial widow. I wasn’t some gold-digging black widow with a five-year plan and a shovel-ready grave plot. No, no. It just sort of… happened. Life has a funny way of presenting opportunities, and I simply had the audacity to take them.

And now, as I lie here on what is likely my last day on earth, I wonder—did any of them, in their final moments, realize it was me all along? Did Cornelius, the very first, put it together as the last breath left his lungs? Did Anthony, the third, have an epiphany mid-air as his car brakes failed? I guess I’ll never know. But let me tell you, their exits were nothing short of spectacular.

 

Husband #1: Cornelius “The Bold and the Brainless“

At 21, I married Cornelius, a wealthy, handsome man who thought his good looks exempted him from common decency. He had a habit of using his hands—unfortunately for him, so did I. He never thought twice about what I might do when he came home smelling like another woman, demanding dinner like I was some Victorian housemaid. His arrogance was his downfall. One night, I made sure his evening scotch was laced with just enough heart-stopping surprise. A quiet death, dignified even—at least compared to the rest.

 

Husband #2: William “The Accident-Prone Investor“

William was an investor. He invested in stocks, real estate, and—unwisely—in trusting me. Poor thing. He slipped in the shower one evening. You’d think the two-inch-thick layer of coconut oil on the floor might’ve been a warning, but alas. He went down faster than one of his bad stock choices. A broken neck. Tragic.

 

Husband #3: Anthony “The Speed Demon“

Anthony loved cars. Loved them more than he loved me, if we’re being honest. He had the audacity to tell me I “didn’t understand horsepower.” Oh, but I did. I understood it well enough to snip his brake lines and send him hurtling down a cliff at full throttle.

 

Husband #4: Cletus “The Food Critic“

Cletus was a man of taste. He liked his wine aged and his steak rare. Unfortunately for him, he also had a severe shellfish allergy. One exquisitely plated shrimp risotto later, and he was clawing at his throat like an extra in a zombie movie. A culinary masterpiece, if I do say so myself.

 

Husband #5: Robert “The Gym Rat“

Robert lived in the gym. The man had muscles on his muscles. I told him once that too much working out could be hazardous to his health. He laughed. Then, on a particularly intense workout, I made sure the weights he was benching weren’t properly secured. A 200-pound dumbbell to the windpipe—now that was a workout.

 

Husband #6: Henry “The Philanderer“

Henry had wandering hands and an even more wandering… well, you get it. He thought he was so clever, hiding things. But I was smarter. One evening, he took his usual evening swim. A simple little dose of an undetectable muscle relaxant, and he sank like a stone. It was a poetic end, really.

 

Husband #7: Samuel “The Conspiracy Theorist“

Samuel was convinced the government was tracking him. He kept his phone in the freezer and wore tinfoil hats unironically. He also, ironically, didn’t believe in fire alarms. When our little “electrical accident” set the house ablaze, he was too busy shouting about government laser beams to make it out.

 

Husband #8: Victor “The Insomniac“

Victor was always popping sleeping pills, but they never worked. I decided to help. Just one night. Just one little extra push. Who knew a person could sleep forever?

 

Husband #9: Timothy “The DIY Enthusiast“

Timothy was a handyman. He lived for DIY projects. He built shelves, fixed sinks, rewired light fixtures. I just helped him along. One unfortunate exposed wire, and he was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Husband #10: Charles “The Romantic Fool“

Charles loved grand gestures. He once tried to propose to me on a hot air balloon. I wasn’t having that. Instead, I suggested a scenic hike by a precarious cliffside. One “accidental” push later, and the mountains had claimed him.

Husband #11: Louis “The Final Act“

Louis. My last. He was different. He wasn’t cruel, or vain, or foolish. He was simply… in the way. But he was also the one I truly loved. And from our union, I had my one and only child—a child I cherished more than anything. And by that point, well—I had a reputation to maintain. A simple gas leak while he slept. A peaceful end.

And now, here I am. My time has come. Perhaps it’s poetic justice. Perhaps it’s just irony catching up with me. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that eleven was a good number. A solid number. And while the world will never know the true extent of my genius, I’ll die knowing one thing: I was never just a wife. I was an artist.

I amassed an empire of wealth, built on life insurances and inherited businesses. My child, my greatest love, will never know the horrors I have committed. And do I feel bad? Not even for a second. If I had the chance, I would do it all over again. And that, my dear world, is my final confession.

The End

The first thing about Serena Ellsworth that caught my attention wasn’t just her beauty—it was the way she carried herself, like she was untouchable, a queen in a world of ordinary people. She hadn’t said a word to me, yet I felt as though I’d known her my whole life. But I was certain she hadn’t even noticed me. The Ellsworth sisters were legendary in our town, five girls born two years apart, each more striking than the last. Serena, the oldest, was my classmate. Then came Thelma, Ursula, Vera, and the youngest, Winter, who was as spoiled as she was beautiful. 

Their parents, Quincy and Riley Ellsworth, were the epitome of success. Quincy was a renowned pharmacist who owned a chain of pharmacies across the city, while Riley, a former international pageant queen, managed their businesses with the precision of a seasoned CEO. They were the kind of family people envied; the kind of family people wanted to be a part of. 

And then there was me—Oliver Grant. This is the story of how I went from being a nobody to having everything, only to lose it all in the most spectacular way possible. But let me start from the beginning. 

The Beginning: A Boy from Nothing

I was born into a low-income family, the son of a single mother who worked tirelessly to keep a roof over our heads. My father? He bolted the moment he found out about my mother’s pregnancy. I was named after a family friend of my grandfather, a man who had helped my mother during her darkest days. Growing up, I learned early on that if I wanted to get ahead, I’d have to rely on my brain. And I did. I was smart academically and streetwise. By the time I reached high school, I was at the top of my class, determined to carve out a better life for myself. 

It was in the ninth grade that I first met Serena. She was everything I wasn’t—graceful, confident, and effortlessly beautiful. We became study buddies, and I quickly became the envy of every boy in school. Serena’s family took notice of me, and before long, I was practically part of the Ellsworth clan. They paid for my tuition, bought me clothes, and even invited me to their home for dinners. By the time we graduated high school, I was no longer Oliver Grant, the boy from the wrong side of town. I was Oliver Grant, the honorary Ellsworth. 

 

The Rise: A Dream Come True

Serena and I both got into prestigious programs at the University of Montgomery—she in pharmaceuticals, me in medicine. The Ellsworths supported me every step of the way, paying for my education and ensuring I lacked for nothing. By our fourth year, Serena and I had grown closer, and what started as a friendship blossomed into something more. 

It wasn’t love at first sight—at least not for me. I was too focused on my ambitions to let my heart get in the way. But Serena was different. She had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room. When she came to me one night, crying over a breakup, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, we were together. 

Her family was ecstatic. Quincy even surprised us with a fully equipped polyclinic as a graduation gift. It was a dream come true—a chance to run our own business, to build something together. Serena and I moved into the bungalow on the clinic’s premises, ready to start our new life. 

But there was one complication: Ursula. 

The Complication: Ursula’s Secret

Ursula, the third Ellsworth sister, had always been close to me. She was the planner, the organizer, the one who took charge of everything. When Serena and I got engaged, Ursula threw herself into wedding planning with an intensity that bordered on obsession. She was in my room late at night, on the phone with me for hours, and always by my side. 

Looking back, I should have seen the signs. But I was too caught up in my own success to notice the cracks forming beneath the surface. 

Ten days before the wedding, Ursula called an emergency family meeting. We all gathered in the Ellsworths’ lavish dining room, plates piled high with food, drinks in hand. Ursula stood at the head of the table, a notebook clutched tightly in her hands. 

“I’m pregnant,” she announced, her voice steady. “And Oliver is the father.” 

The room erupted. Plates crashed to the floor, voices rose in anger, and one of the sisters lunged at Ursula. But Serena? She sat in silence, her eyes locked on mine. 

“If this is what you two want,” she said calmly, “you can have it.” 

And just like that, my life began to unravel. 

The Fall: A Web of Lies

Ursula and I got married in a rushed ceremony, attended by friends but conspicuously absent of the Ellsworths. For a while, life seemed manageable. Ursula was pregnant, and we were running the clinic together. But then, during childbirth, tragedy struck. Ursula and the baby died, leaving me devastated and alone. 

Or so I thought. 

The real blow came when I discovered Ursula’s betrayal. She had been embezzling money from the clinic, funnelling it into an offshore account she shared with her ex-boyfriend, Lucas Merritt. The pregnancy? It wasn’t even mine. Ursula had been playing me from the start, using me as a pawn in her scheme to reunite with Lucas. 

Within weeks, the clinic collapsed, and I was left with nothing. My mother, who had stood by me through it all, passed away from the shock. I was alone, broken, and defeated. 

The Revelation: Serena’s Revenge

In my darkest moment, I reached out to Serena, hoping for some semblance of closure. But she refused to answer my calls. It wasn’t until years later, when I stumbled upon an old newspaper article, that I learned the truth. 

The Ellsworths had orchestrated it all. 

Serena had known about Ursula’s affair with Lucas. She had known about the embezzlement. And she had let it happen, using me as a pawn in her own game of revenge. The Ellsworths had never forgiven me for betraying Serena, and they had made sure I paid the ultimate price. 

The Aftermath: A Life Rebuilt

Today, I live in a remote part of the country, working at a small clinic and trying to rebuild my life. The Ellsworths are long gone, their empire thriving without me. But I’ve learned to live with the consequences of my choices. 

This is my story—a cautionary tale of ambition, betrayal, and the price of crossing the wrong family. The Ellsworths may have cursed me, but in the end, I cursed myself. 

And that, my friends, is the truth.

As I sit in the courtroom, two lawyers attempt a theatrical duel over my soul. The prosecutor sneers, painting me a monster. The defence pleads for understanding, human frailty, grief, and trauma. I tune them out. Because, truthfully, only I know the full story.

And I don’t fully understand it either.

So, let’s rewind.

It was my second year as a Supply Chain Risk Manager, read: corporate firefighter, when I met Theo. He was an Actuarial Analyst, the kind of man who could calculate your life expectancy down to the sneeze.

We collided, literally, in the food court of the World Business Building. His triple-shot vanilla latte exploded across my silk blouse like a Jackson Pollock original. I had an important meeting and couldn’t walk in looking like I’d lost a brawl to Starbucks.

He insisted on buying me a new shirt. I accepted. The man had cheekbones that made angels bite pillows. I must’ve mumbled where I worked, because the next day, a bouquet the size of a toddler arrived at my desk with a note:
“Let me make it up to you over dinner. I promise not to spill anything, except my feelings.”
The audacity. I liked it.

We were both 25. Same birthday, six months apart. Same hometown somehow never met. Same ambition, rising stars, already burning bright.

We dated. We clicked. A year and a half later, he proposed in the kind of way that makes strangers cry and Instagram freeze. Six months after that, we were married.
The wedding? Think royal. Think headlines. Think “Wedding of the Decade.”

We made money. We made moves. But not babies, not yet. I wasn’t ready, and Theo, God bless him, understood.

Until we turned 35.

One steamy Thursday night and boom, pregnant. Like, textbook first-try. Emry arrived 37 weeks later: healthy, perfect, terrifyingly beautiful.

We were obsessed.

She was one of those kids you don’t try to duplicate. The full package. Bright. Reserved. Angelic. We made her an only child, not out of selfishness, but reverence.

Theo adored her. She adored him. They shared a love for water, pools, lakes, and oceans. I, a hydrophobe, stayed land-bound, sipping cocktails under umbrellas while they swam out of earshot and sometimes, worryingly, out of view.

She didn’t have many friends. Didn’t care for boys or girls. She had her dad. That was enough for her. Enough for us.

But now? Looking back? Maybe that should’ve been a clue.

She grew up. Graduated top of her class. Wanted to be a Genetic Counselor. Ivy League-bound. We planned the perfect graduation party. Beachfront, of course.

We had a surprise: a new car, a condo near campus, and a million-dollar trust fund that paid out for life milestones, college, career, wedding, and babies. We were thrilled. She wasn’t. Said it was “too much.” But I chalked it up to modesty.

That morning, Emry and Theo went jet skiing. Their thing. I kissed them both. Theo smiled. Emry hugged me tighter than usual.
I didn’t know it then, but I should’ve.

They vanished.

Six hours later, no word. Guests arrived. No Theo. No Emry. Their phones, dead. I called the Coast Guard. Two officers showed up with graveyard faces. The jet ski was found drifting alone. Calm waters. No tide. No struggle. Just… gone.

They said drowning. I said bullshit.

But dead is dead.

When the authorities finally issued the death certificates, I remember one thing not sitting right—Theo’s finances. There were small red flags no one else noticed. Certain accounts had been emptied, others oddly fortified. A few payments had been rerouted offshore, sitting quietly in places we’d never done business. But I was too hollow to chase suspicions. My world had collapsed; forensic audits felt pointless. I told myself grief was messing with my judgment, that he’d probably just been restructuring things for Emry’s trust. Looking back now, I see it for what it was—not a financial anomaly, but a trail. They weren’t taken by the sea. They were leaving me breadcrumbs. They’d been planning this.

I collapsed inward. At 54, I became a widow. A mother with no child. Friends brought casseroles and clichés. I brought nothing. Emptiness sat with me at every meal. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I existed like a forgotten voicemail.

Ten years passed. A decade. I buried myself in spreadsheets and quarterly reports.

Then, one Tuesday evening, my phone buzzed.

Elaine sent a vacation video from Panama, street carnival, costumes, music. “Get your groove back!” she texted, with too many emojis. I chuckled. Then paused. Rewound. Zoomed. Froze.

I knew that silhouette. That head tilt. That smirk.

My heart stopped. My hands didn’t.

I booked the next flight.

Panama smelled like betrayal and fried plantains. I hunted subtly. Showed children photos. Gave out candy. By Day 2, I found them.

Names changed: Fred and Peggy. Living as husband and wife.

Let me say that again.

My husband. And our daughter. Playing house.

Ten years of grief, wasted. Ten years of thinking she was gone, when she was being groomed in plain sight. He had taken her, our child, and warped her into something I can’t even name. And she let him.

They dyed their hair. Changed accents. But Theo couldn’t hide the way he walked. Emry couldn’t hide the way she blinked when she was lying.

I followed them for days. They were comfortable. Domestic. Sickeningly normal.

Then I made my move.

I left a note in my hotel room. Showered. Dressed well. Took the gun.

They were walking through the park, giggling about God-knows-what. I stepped in front of them.

“Theo. Emry.”

They froze. Deer, meet headlights.

He whispered my name. She croaked out, “Mum?”

I asked, “Why?”

Theo stuttered. “We can explain.”

Emry reached out. “Please,”

I shot them both. In the face. One after the other.

Crowd screamed. I sat down. Placed the gun on the ground like a wallet. Waited.

The headlines exploded:
“Mother Tracks Down Runaway Family, Uncovers Incestuous Double Life.”

Public opinion? Mixed.
Some called me a murderer.
Some called me a hero.
Some just wanted the documentary rights.

Now here I am, in court, wearing the same blouse I wore the day I met Theo. Cleaned, pressed. No coffee stains.

I don’t know how this ends. Maybe prison. Maybe freedom.

But what I do know is this:

They say water cleanses all.

But this?

This was saltwater.

And it stains.

I had always been a master of mischief. The older I got, the bolder I became—skating through life with a level of audacity that should’ve been studied in textbooks. My mother, Lillith, was a force of nature, and by force, I mean a hurricane in stilettos. My father? A gentle man, too gentle for a woman like her. He tried—Lord knows he did—to instill some moral compass in me, but my mother? She shattered that compass every chance she got.

She was the chairperson of our local church, a woman revered for her piety, yet behind closed doors, she was rewriting the Ten Commandments one sin at a time. Faithful? Not in this lifetime. She cheated on my father and made sure I understood why he deserved it—because he was weak, because he was boring, because he was a man who believed in forgiveness, and forgiveness was for fools.

And me? Well, I was my mother’s son. Loyalty ran in my blood, but only in one direction—toward her. She supported my every misdeed, cheered me on from the sidelines as I got away with everything. I was untouchable, invincible, or so I thought.

Life moved quickly. College came and went. I landed a respectable job, met a woman named Olive—smart, accomplished, the kind of woman society applauds. The moment I saw her, I knew she was it. But, of course, my mother disapproved. Said she had an air of independence she didn’t like. That was code for “She might be too strong-willed to manipulate.”

For the first time, I stood my ground. And by stood my ground, I mean I convinced my mother that Olive could be… molded. So, begrudgingly, she let it be. Marriage followed, then two years in, a pregnancy. Twins. We decided on Koir, the king of light, and Mika, who is like God. The irony was not lost on me—I was about as godly as a vulture at a funeral.

Olive changed after the twins were born. Postpartum hit her like a freight train, and I, in my infinite selfishness, expected her to manage the baby, the house, and my ever-growing expectations. My mother, as always, had my back. “A woman needs discipline,” she’d whisper, her voice laced with disdain every time Olive seemed overwhelmed.

I could hear my wife crying at night. I slept through it like it was a lullaby.

Years passed, and nothing changed—at least not for me. Olive was still praying through the misery, still thinking love and faith could solve what I had no intention of fixing. I, on the other hand, was plotting. I wanted another child, but I didn’t want her to think it was my idea. So I did what any morally bankrupt husband would do—I lied. I convinced her we were focusing on our careers, on raising the twins. Meanwhile, my pharmacist friend slipped me medication to boost ovulation. And every morning, I blended those little miracles into her “healthy” smoothies.

When she got pregnant, I put on an Oscar-worthy performance. Shock. Disappointment. “How could you be so careless?” I wailed while secretly revelling in my victory. I tormented her with guilt, made her believe she had failed me. And just like that, another child was on the way.

Fifteen years. That’s how long we’ve been at this game. She’s still here, still bound by the shackles of prayers that never get answered. My mother still pulls the strings, and Olive still sees me as her knight in shining armour. She doesn’t make decisions without me, and can’t imagine life outside of me. I’ve ensured it. Her career? Sabotaged. Her independence? Erased. Her mind? Mine.

Even when small flickers of rebellion sparked within her, they were extinguished before they could become flames. The rare moments she considered leaving, I found ways to remind her that she wouldn’t survive without me. A strategically placed compliment here, a reminder of how much she needed me there, and, if all else failed, a call to my mother to “correct” her thinking.

And tonight, as I sit across from her at the dinner table, she smiles—a tired, resigned smile. She still prays. She still hopes. But we both know the truth.

She’s not going anywhere.

And me? I won. I always do.

Rick adjusted his cufflinks in the mirror, watching the reflection of his wife, Judy, as she laughed over the phone. Jaime—her best friend, her confidante. But Rick knew better now. He knew every lie, every whisper, every secret exchanged between them.

Later, he found himself seated in the dimly lit study, swirling a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the desk lamp. His gaze lingered on the photograph on the wall—a picture of Judy and Jaime, their arms wrapped around each other, their bond seemingly unbreakable. Rick’s lips curled into a knowing smile. He knew how they had plotted to kill him. He knew it all. He had always been a patient man, and patience, he had learned, was the key to the perfect revenge.

It had all started ten years ago when Rick first met Jaime. Magnetic, intelligent, effortlessly beautiful—she was intoxicating. He had been drawn to her instantly. And she to him. But life had other plans. Judy, Jaime’s best friend, had entered the picture, and Rick, ever the pragmatist, had married her instead. It wasn’t love—not really. It was convenient, a calculated move. Judy was wealthy, well-connected, and utterly devoted to him. But Rick had never stopped wanting Jaime.

What Judy didn’t know—what she could never have suspected—was that Rick and Jaime had been playing a long game. A game that had begun the moment Judy first introduced them. Jaime had been the one to suggest it, her voice low and conspiratorial over a bottle of wine one evening. “We could have everything,” she had said. “But we have to be smart about it.”

So they had waited. They had bided their time, pretending to be nothing more than friends, while secretly plotting Judy’s downfall. It had been Jaime’s idea to plant the seed of murder in Judy’s mind. “She’s always been impulsive,” Jaime had said. “If we give her the right push, she’ll do something reckless. And when she does, we’ll be ready.”

The plan had been flawless. Judy, convinced that Rick was standing in the way of her happiness with Jaime, had decided to kill him. She had laced his evening whiskey with a lethal dose of sedatives, her hands trembling as she stirred the powder into the glass. What she didn’t know was that Rick had switched the glasses, watching from the shadows as she drank the poisoned whiskey herself.

But Rick hadn’t counted on Judy’s resilience. She survived. Woke up in the hospital with no memory of what had happened. That was when Rick made his move. With the help of a trusted private investigator and an old friend in law enforcement, Rick built his own plan—a masterpiece of deception. He had made sure the paramedics were ready the night Judy slipped the poison into his drink. He had switched the glasses, yes, but he had done more. He had gathered evidence, planted just enough doubt, and when the time came, the police were more than ready.

Judy was arrested the next morning. The police found the poison bottle and empty sedative containers in her drawer, along with printed emails of her and Jaime’s conversations detailing their murder plot. The evidence was overwhelming.

She screamed in the interrogation room, cried for Jaime, begged for understanding. But her lover never came. Instead, Jaime stood beside Rick, tears in her eyes, playing the part of the devastated friend.

As she sat in the courtroom, staring at Rick and Jaime, Judy saw the truth unravel before her. The way Jaime’s fingers brushed against Rick’s hand. The way their eyes met. The smirk hidden in the corner of his lips. And then she knew. They had played her. They had played her all along. Jaime had never been hers. Jaime had been his.

And suddenly, like a gut punch, it hit her—Jaime’s daughter, Emily, wasn’t just hers. She was Rick’s.

The trial was swift. When the verdict came in—attempted murder—Judy’s world crumbled. Fifteen years behind bars. No parole. As she was led away, she finally understood the ultimate betrayal. She had tried to kill a man who had always been ten steps ahead. And now, Rick and Jaime had everything—the house, the fortune, the child, and a future together in a new city.

And she had nothing but time.

Epilogue

Years later, Rick and Jaime sat on the porch of their beach house, watching as Emily played in the sand. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the water. Jaime leaned her head on Rick’s shoulder, a contented smile on her lips.

“Do you ever think about her?” she asked softly.

Rick hesitated for a moment before answering. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But not in the way you might think. She was a means to an end, nothing more.”

Jaime nodded; her gaze fixed on the horizon. “We did what we had to do,” she said. “And now we have everything we ever wanted.”

Rick reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “Yes,” he said. “We do.”

And as the waves crashed against the shore, Rick knew that they had finally won. The perfect betrayal had come full circle, and there was no going back.

A romance novel.
A tale so serendipitous, so intricately woven into fate’s fabric, that even the most skeptical hearts would concede—it was meant to be.

They had met as toddlers, though they wouldn’t realize it until years later.
Both their fathers worked for the government of Ather; Margo’s father, Omari Kane, was a renowned surgeon with the Ministry of Health, while her mother, Uriah, managed a local elementary school. Reed’s father, Colt Greene, was a distinguished professor with the Ministry of Education, and his mother, Gwen, ran a well-known hair salon.
By some cosmic joke, Omari and Colt had been childhood friends who, despite their separate pursuits, ensured their families remained close.

Yet, as fate often does, it played tricks.
Margo and Reed, though bound by history, couldn’t stand each other as children.
Margo, an only child with a sharp tongue, was feisty and fiercely independent. Reed, the eldest of four boys, was patient, studious, and soft-spoken—the poster child for well-mannered sons.
Where Margo preferred solitary adventures, Reed played referee to his younger brothers.

Their childhood camaraderie ended abruptly when Omari’s work took him to another city. Margo sobbed as they said their goodbyes, her small fingers clutching Reed’s until the last possible moment. But children are nothing if not resilient.
Soon, she forgot about Reed.
Reed, however, never forgot Margo.

Years passed, and the universe conspired once again.
By the educational standards of Ather, students attended boarding school for senior high. And so, Margo and Reed found themselves at Grand Mountain College.

The moment Reed spotted Margo at orientation, his heart skipped a beat.
She, however, walked past him without a flicker of recognition.

Patience had always been Reed’s virtue, and fate eventually rewarded it.
On Margo’s birthday, he gifted her a basket filled with her favorite treats. It was only then that she took notice. Their parents reunited too, and from reluctant small talk bloomed a friendship, and from friendship, love.

Teenage love is often dismissed as folly, but theirs was steadfast.
They balanced each other—Reed, the calm to Margo’s storm; Margo, the fire that made Reed bold.
Late-night conversations. Stolen kisses between classes. Quiet walks under amber streetlights.
Their love grew in the spaces between words and glances.

But life, ever cruel, had different plans.

Omari was reassigned to Norway. Colt was sent to Canada.
Within days, Margo and Reed were pulled from school, placed on planes, and sent across the world.
Their last sight of each other was at the airport—glancing back, walking away, unwilling.

Years passed.
Margo thrived at McMaster University in Canada. Reed soared at Princeton. They lost touch, assuming their story had ended.

Then, one winter day, fate intervened.

Margo was in a coffee shop when she overheard a family speaking Atherian. She turned—and found Gwen Greene staring back.
Recognition. Tears.
Gwen called Reed.
Upon seeing Margo’s face on video, Reed drove eight hours through snow and ice just to throw himself into her arms again.

Their love reignited like it had been waiting, quietly burning, all those years.

They pursued graduate degrees together at UBC, found work back in government, moved to the quaint hamlet of Easten.
They laughed, planned, dreamed.

Then, before Margo’s 26th birthday, Reed proposed—an elaborate, private, breathtaking moment.
She said yes.
Of course, she said yes.

They returned to Ather to marry where it all began.
The celebrations were endless. The air was thick with excitement.

And then—

Tragedy struck.

On the eve of their wedding, Margo, ever cautious, ordered a virgin cocktail at her bachelorette party.
Unbeknownst to her, it contained mango—a fruit she was deathly allergic to.

Alone in her hotel room, she took a sip.
The reaction was immediate—her throat tightening, breath shortening.
She reached for her EpiPen—only to remember it was across the room, tucked neatly away.

She stumbled forward, hand outstretched.
But the door was too far, and the world tilted, and darkness took her before help could find her.

By the time they did, it was too late.

The morning that should have begun with wedding bells rang instead with the sharp, raw wails of loss.

Reed was halfway through tying his bowtie when Colt burst into the room.
One look at his father’s ashen face—and Reed knew.
Knew in the marrow of his bones.

“No,” Reed barked, half-dressed, shoving past him. “No—no—no.”

He ran.
Shoes flying off.
Suit jacket forgotten.
Barefoot and frantic down the long marble halls.

Guests parted like waves as he stormed through the hotel, pounding on her door, yelling her name.

No answer.

He kicked the door open.

And there she was.

Margo.
Lying still.
Hair fanned around her like a crown.
Eyes closed.
Peaceful. Terrifyingly peaceful.

“No—Margo—baby—no—wake up—wake up—”
Reed dropped to his knees, dragging her into his arms, screaming for help until his voice tore apart.

He rocked her, pressing his forehead against hers, whispering desperate promises into her stillness.
He kissed her forehead. Her frozen hand. Her unresponsive lips.

Paramedics came.
Too late.
Far too late.

They pulled him away from her body like he was just another piece of wreckage.

The burial was cruel in its finality.

The whole of Ather mourned.
Friends. Family. Strangers.
Even the skies wept—steady, unrelenting rain soaking the earth.

Reed stood alone at the gravesite, suit ruined, tie askew, face hollow.
The world blurred around him.
None of it mattered.

Only her name, carved into stone, felt real.

He knelt in the mud, hand pressed to the cold granite.

“You were my beginning,” he whispered, voice raw. “And I don’t know how to live in an ending without you.“

The final shovel of earth fell with a sound like a gunshot.
Sealing the love story that deserved more.
Deserved a lifetime.

But somewhere, in the soft rustling of Ather’s trees, in the ghost of children’s laughter on the breeze—
Margo and Reed’s love endures.

Because love—real, soul-deep love—is eternal.
And not even death can silence it.

Not completely.

Never completely.

The Mensah-Dadzie family was a household of success and secrets. Mr. Mensah-Dadzie had built his empire from nothing, raising four sons: Ekow, the esteemed pharmacist; Nana Kosi, the brilliant doctor; Fiifi, the black sheep who refused to follow the traditional path; and Papa Kojo, the unexpected last child, born when their mother was nearly fifty. Each of them had carved a different path, but only a few were free from the burdens of expectation.

In contrast, the Appiah-Johnson family was smaller but no less remarkable. Steve Appiah-Johnson, a forensic scientist, and his wife, Araba, a professor, raised their only daughter, Fyre Baaba Appiah-Johnson. She was a firecracker, as her name suggested—intelligent, ambitious, and unstoppable. By 25, she held a doctorate in computer engineering and had made a name for herself in the world of coding and cryptography. Governments and top agencies sought her expertise, but Fyre had her own rules for engagement. She worked on her own terms and valued her freedom above all else.

Fyre met Nana Kosi in the modern way: a game of mutual Instagram likes that led to endless conversations. It felt like fate. Their chemistry was undeniable, their love intense, but both harbored secrets too dangerous to reveal. Fyre saw in Nana Kosi a man of structure and steadiness, a perfect contrast to her chaotic brilliance. Nana Kosi, in turn, was drawn to her energy and unfiltered honesty. Their relationship blossomed quickly, and for three years, they were inseparable.

However, cracks soon formed beneath the surface. While Fyre sought deeper commitment, Nana Kosi remained distant. He travelled often for work, using his demanding career as an excuse. But the truth was more complex—he feared that his deepest secret would drive her away forever. He wanted to be the man she needed, but his accident had robbed him of the ability to be that man. Instead of sharing his fears, he withdrew, letting silence and distance do the damage he could not undo.

Fyre was not the kind of woman to wait forever. Growing tired of the emotional tug-of-war, she packed her bags and retreated to a secluded family home, citing work. But in truth, she was escaping the disappointment of waiting for a proposal that would never come. She told no one her true reasons, only that she needed time.

Desperate, Nana Kosi enlisted his brother Fiifi to bring Fyre back. Fiifi had become her closest confidant, her driver, her friend. When he arrived, they fell into an easy companionship, sharing stories, laughter, and, unexpectedly, intimacy. What began as an innocent visit spiralled into something neither had anticipated. Fyre, in her vulnerability, found solace in Fiifi’s presence. He had always understood her in ways Nana Kosi never could.

But Fiifi, burdened by guilt, knew the truth—truths that could shatter Fyre’s world. Nana Kosi’s “nephew,” the boy she adored, was actually his son. Worse, Fiifi had orchestrated Nana Kosi’s car accident out of jealousy, an act of vengeance that left his brother incapable of fulfilling Fyre’s desires in more ways than one. The weight of this secret gnawed at him, especially as his feelings for Fyre grew deeper.

As the days passed, Fyre and Fiifi grew closer. She taught him coding, encouraged him to follow his path, and unknowingly gave him a sense of purpose he had never had before. In return, he cared for her in ways she had never experienced. When she fell ill with malaria, he nursed her back to health, staying by her side when everyone else had left. She basked in his attention, unaware of the storm brewing inside him.

One evening, as they sat together watching an old film, the air between them shifted. Fyre leaned into Fiifi’s warmth, and he did not pull away. That night, barriers crumbled. Passion ignited between them, raw and unrestrained. In Fiifi’s arms, Fyre found the fire she had been missing. And in Fyre’s touch, Fiifi felt seen for the first time in his life.

But passion came with consequences. The morning after, as the reality of their actions settled in, Fyre revealed what she had kept hidden all along—she had known about Nana Kosi’s son. She had discovered the truth months ago and left not out of heartbreak but because she refused to be made a fool of. She had never truly loved Nana Kosi; she had been in love with Fiifi the entire time.

Now, she gave him a choice: leave everything behind and run away with her to Fiji or return to the life he had always known. She handed him a package—his passport with a Fiji visa, a first-class one-way ticket, and enough money to start over.

Fiifi was torn. He had spent his life being underestimated, the black sheep of the Mensah-Dadzie family. Fyre had seen him differently, had believed in his potential, had nurtured the fire inside him rather than extinguishing it. But could he truly abandon everything he had ever known for a chance at an uncertain future? The thought of betraying Nana Kosi haunted him, yet the allure of a life with Fyre was irresistible.

————————————————————————————————————————-

The airport was bustling. Fyre sat, listening to the announcements, watching the hurried movements of strangers. She had discarded her phone, untethering herself from the past. Now, all she could do was wait.

Would he come?

You ever have one of those moments where life hits you with a plot twist so wild, you start questioning if you’re actually living in some poorly written sitcom? Like, you’re just minding your business, trying to adult, and BAM—life drops a grenade in your lap and says, “Good luck with this one, champ!”

Well, that’s exactly what happened to me while I was sitting in the patient’s chair, staring at my doctor like she’d just told me I was secretly a mermaid. “Solar urticaria” she said, spinning around to face me with the kind of calm that only someone who doesn’t have to live with your life can muster.

I blinked. Then squinted at her like she was speaking Klingon. “So, you’re just gonna hit me with a double whammy? First, I have fibroids, and now I’ve got—what did you say? Solar ur-mi-tris?”

She laughed. “Solar urticaria.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Hold up. Forget the fibroids for a second. We’ll circle back to those. But how does a girl born and raised in a tropical country suddenly become allergic to the sun at 28? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?”

She shrugged. “It happens.”

“Happens?! Happens to WHO?! Cool. Coolcoolcool. Just what I needed: a medical mystery wrapped in a riddle, sprinkled with a dash of “why me?”

Alright, let’s backtrack.

The year 2022 was long. Unnecessarily long. It was shaping up to be the year that made me question every life choice I’d ever made. My period had decided to overstay its welcome like an in-law with no return ticket. It had just decided to stage a never-ending protest, turning me into a walking crime scene and forcing me into what I like to call Inflicted Celibacy. And then, as if my uterus wasn’t enough of a drama queen, I noticed something strange. Every time I visited my new boyfriend, Christopher, not only did my bleeding intensify, but I’d also break out in hives.

HIVES.

Like I was allergic to the air in his house. Or maybe to him? Nah, that couldn’t be it.

Right?

Wrong.

I had chalked it up to his water. “must be the water,” I’d say, scratching my arms like a flea-ridden dog. Maybe his detergent. Maybe my body just hated his pillows. But looking back, deep down, I knew it was more than that. It was clear as day—I was allergic to him.

Yes. You read that right.

Not his cologne, not his laundry detergent, not even his questionable taste in Hawaiian shirts—him. The man himself. My body was basically screaming, “Girl, run!”

People talk about being allergic to peanuts, shellfish, gluten—normal stuff. But a whole human being? That was a new one.

Chris was supposed to be my soulmate. Or so I thought. Turns out, he was more of a soul-sucker. He played the role well, too. A seasoned womanizer with the charm of a used car salesman and the morals of a raccoon in a dumpster. As my friend Lina put it best: “You can’t shame the shameless.” And boy, was Chris shameless. He acted all understanding, went to doctor’s appointments with me, offered suggestions, even held my hand through it all. But, as it turns out, the call was coming from inside the house.

For two years, I bled like a stuck pig, lost weight like I was training for a marathon I didn’t sign up for and became so allergic to the sun I basically started living like a vampire. Meanwhile, Chris was all, “Oh, poor baby, let me take care of you,” while secretly being the human equivalent of a black hole sucking the life out of me.

But the universe has a funny way of slapping you awake. One morning, I decided to surprise Chris with an unannounced visit. He’d asked if I was coming over, but I lied and said my cramps had me bedridden.

(Side note: Why do we always lie about cramps like they’re some kind of shameful secret? Men will brag about a hangnail, but we’re out here acting like our uteruses aren’t staging a mutiny.)

Anyway, I pulled up to his house, and there he was, hands all over Olivia like she was the last slice of pizza at a frat party. They saw me, they jumped apart like church folks avoiding sin, but it was too late. I’d seen enough.

Now, the old me would’ve gone full soap opera, complete with dramatic slaps and a monologue about betrayal. But not this time. Nope. I just backed up my car, drove away, and never looked back. To this day, I haven’t heard from Chris or Olivia, and honestly? Good riddance to bad rubbish, as Selina would say.

And just like that, Christopher ceased to exist.

Fast forward a year later and enter Fred. Sweet, wonderful, normal Fred. He was everything I didn’t know I needed. He worshipped the ground I walked on, brought me soup when I was sick, and didn’t once make me feel like a walking medical disaster. Before I knew it, we were engaged. I was already mentally putting his last name next to mine.

Here’s where it gets weird.

I noticed something: I wasn’t having flare-ups anymore. My sun allergy? Gone. My period? Normal.

At first, I brushed it off. But then, like a movie montage, it all came rushing back to me—Chris, the bleeding, the hives, the weird vibes, the betrayal. And then it hit me like a truck:

 

I WAS LITERALLY ALLERGIC TO MY EX.

I’m not one for conspiracy theories, and I don’t believe in coincidences, but I do believe in science. And science was telling me that sometimes, people make you sick. Physically, emotionally, mentally—if they’re toxic enough, they will literally ruin your health.

I couldn’t ignore the signs. My body had been trying to tell me something all along: I wasn’t allergic to the sun or the water or even life itself. I was allergic to Chris.

It was one of those moments where everything suddenly makes sense, like when you finally figure out how to fold a fitted sheet. All the pieces fell into place, and I realized that some people come into your life just to make you sick—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Chris was my kryptonite, and Fred was my antidote.

I mean it.

Even my doctor was baffled. “Did you try any herbal treatments?” she asked, flipping through my chart like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Nope,” I said, grinning. “Just fell in love with the right person.” And just like that, my body healed itself.

Chris had laughed once, saying he knew I could never give him children. “Who wants a woman who bleeds all over everything?” he had sneered.

Well, funny thing, Chris. I had twins. Twice.

Oh, and you better believe I sent him and his family a Christmas card that year. A big, glossy one with all four of my kids smiling like little angels. Call it petty, but sometimes karma needs a little nudge. Happy holidays, sucker.

So, here’s to love, laughter, and finally figuring out that you’re not allergic to life—just the wrong people. And if anyone ever tells you that you can’t heal yourself with love, just point them my way. I’ve got a Christmas card with their name on it.