It was supposed to be a perfect day—our first wedding anniversary, and I had big news to share with Ben: we were finally pregnant. But when Ben didn’t show up at the restaurant, my excitement turned into worry. Little did I know, what awaited me at home would change everything.
I had been counting down the days for two months, waiting until it felt safe enough to share the pregnancy news with Ben. We had been trying for nearly six months, and when I finally saw those two pink lines, my heart soared. I wanted to tell him immediately, but I decided to wait for a special moment—our anniversary.
My friend Tiffany warned me that two months was still early. “But I get it,” she said. “It’s the perfect anniversary gift. He’ll love it!”
That’s exactly what I had in mind. I wanted it to be meaningful, so I planned a romantic dinner at the restaurant where we had our wedding reception. It was a cozy spot with dim lighting and soft music, the kind of place where every moment felt like it was out of a movie. I even wore the same dress I had worn on our wedding day, hoping Ben would appreciate the gesture as much as I did.
I arrived at the restaurant early, my heart racing with excitement. I ordered a glass of water and kept my eyes glued to the door, imagining the moment Ben would walk in, his face lighting up when I told him we were going to be parents.
But Ben didn’t show.
Minutes turned into an hour. The waitress came by multiple times, her smile thinning with each pass. I tried to stay calm, telling myself he was just caught in traffic or something came up at work. But the anxiety gnawed at me as I stared at my phone—no messages, no missed calls.
After an hour of waiting, I couldn’t take it anymore. I paid the bill and rushed home, a thousand thoughts running through my mind. Was he hurt? In an accident? Or worse—was he leaving me?
When I got home, the driveway was empty. The house was dark, except for the glow of the TV in my grandmother’s house across the road. I felt a wave of dread wash over me as I fumbled with my keys and stepped inside, calling out for Ben.
Nothing. Just silence.
Then, I spotted it—a plain white envelope sitting on the kitchen counter. I tore it open, my heart pounding in my chest. Inside was a single line:
Your grandma made me do this. Bye forever, Becca.
I read it again, my mind reeling. What did this even mean? What did my grandma have to do with Ben’s disappearance? I grabbed my phone and called Ben, but it went straight to voicemail, over and over again. Desperate, I stormed across the road to my grandmother’s house.
When she opened the door, I demanded answers. “What did you say to Ben? He’s gone, and he left a note saying you made him do it!”
My grandmother sighed, a look of disappointment crossing her face. “I had to do what’s best for you, Becca,” she said, her tone condescending. “Ben isn’t the right man for you. Deep down, you’ve always known that.”
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