Six words. That’s all it took to nearly ruin my life.
My wife, Julia, and I had just left the doctor’s office, thrilled after hearing our baby’s heartbeat. Then we saw my car.
“Hope She Was Worth It.”
Julia’s face fell. “What is this?”
“I don’t know!” I said, panic rising. “I’ve never cheated!”
She didn’t say a word. She just called her brother and left.
That night, I scrubbed the paint off, my heart pounding. Then my neighbor, Mark, walked up.
“Looks like someone’s mad at you,” he said, smirking.
“Was it you?” I growled.
He laughed. “No. But I heard you’ve been playing around.”
My hands clenched into fists. “That’s not true.”
Mark shrugged. “Then who wrote it?”
The next day, I checked the security footage. The cameras showed someone in yellow sneakers spray-painting my car.
Then I remembered—Mark’s roommate, Tyler, always wore yellow sneakers. And Tyler had once asked Julia out.
When I confronted him, he looked away. “I thought you didn’t appreciate her,” he mumbled.
Julia and I reconciled, but the rumor haunted us. It took weeks before the stares stopped.
The lesson? Hurt people hurt people. But love? Love always finds a way.
