On the bus, I gave my seat to a pregnant woman in her fifties. She flashed me a coquettish smile and said, “Thank you, darling husband.”
I didn’t think much of it. The next day, she turned up as my new coworker.
She followed me around every day, calling me her husband and insisting that the fruit of our love would soon be born.
My coworkers teased me for robbing the cradle and said I had to take responsibility for her. I just assumed the woman was mentally unwell and still didn’t take her seriously.
But three months later, she gave birth to quadruplets.
Outside the company, she slapped a paternity test in my face showing a 99.9% match between me and the four babies.
“Darling, just come home and settle down with me.”
My girlfriend, a billionaire, slapped me and broke up with me on the spot.
Later, under pressure from public opinion, I married the woman. Life after the wedding was pure misery.
I worked day and night to support the four children.
On the night they left for college, the woman plunged a knife into my chest and said coldly:
“You’ll never find out why I got pregnant out of nowhere.”
When I opened my eyes again, I realized I had been reborn,
back on the day I first met her on the bus.
