It was just another evening at a bustling restaurant — laughter bouncing off the walls, glasses clinking, the hum of conversations all around. I’d gone out after work to unwind, never expecting that night to become a memory seared into my mind.
As I passed a corner table, I saw him immediately: Michael, my boss. Calm, collected, always in control at the office. Across from him sat his wife, poised and elegant, the kind of presence that seemed to command quiet respect without trying.
The day before, Michael had shared news at work: he was going to be a father. We celebrated him, laughed, congratulated him — the usual warmth that comes with good news. Seeing his wife, I thought it natural to extend the joy.
“Congratulations!” I said, smiling. “Michael told us yesterday — you must be so excited.”
Her fork froze midair. Her face drained of color. The joy I expected vanished instantly, replaced by a raw, unguarded pain that made the restaurant noise fade to silence.
Michael gripped my arm, urgency in his touch, his jaw tight. He whispered, almost to himself, “My wife actually is…” and then stopped. The words refused to form.
Finally, he spoke aloud, deliberate but heavy: “She is not pregnant.”
I froze. My words of celebration had collided with a hidden grief — a loss I could not have imagined. His wife offered a trembling, polite smile, eyes glossy with unshed tears. There was no anger, only sorrow.
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