Abbie’s world turns upside down when her husband vanishes without a trace, leaving only a cryptic note behind. Days later, a phone call from her mother-in-law reveals a shocking secret that shakes Abbie to the core. Where is Matthew?
“Matthew? This isn’t funny, where are you?” I called out, expecting to hear his voice from another room.
But the house was silent, except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.
My heart started to race as I noticed a note on the kitchen table.
It read, “Don’t search for me.“
I stared at the note, hoping it was a bad joke. Matthew loved pranks, but this felt different. I grabbed my phone and dialed his number, only to hear it go straight to voicemail.
“Matthew, call me back,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “This isn’t funny.”
I called his mom next. “Hi, it’s Abbie. Have you heard from Matthew?”
“No, dear,” Claire replied. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes, it is. Sorry, I guess he just went out for a walk.”
I hung up and tried his best friend, James.
“No, Abbie, we haven’t heard from him,” James said, his concern mirroring mine.
Matthew never returned.
The kids kept asking, “Where’s Daddy?”
I didn’t know how to answer them. I finally went to the police, clutching the note in my hand.
“Ma’am, with the note he left, we can’t start a search,” the officer said.
“But he’s missing!” I protested, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “What if something happened to him?”
The officer shook his head. “I’m sorry, but adults have the right to disappear if they want to. There’s nothing we can do.”
I left the station feeling helpless and alone.
I returned home to our cozy suburban house, now filled with an eerie emptiness. I gathered the children in the living room.
“Kids, I need to tell you something,” I began, my voice shaking. “Daddy is… he’s gone away for a while.”
“Why, Mommy?” my youngest asked.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I replied, pulling her into a hug. “But we have to be strong, okay?”
The days that followed were a blur of tears and unanswered questions.
Every corner of the house reminded me of Matthew.
His favorite coffee mug on the counter, his shoes by the door, the jacket he always wore still hanging in the closet.
I tried to keep things normal for the kids, but it was a struggle. Every time they asked about their father, my heart broke a little more.
Then, one day, I received a call from my mother-in-law.
“If you want to know the truth, promise me you won’t tell Matthew anything,” her voice cracked through the FaceTime call, breaking the silence of the room.
“Promise? What’s going on?” I asked, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.
“Matthew is here at my house. With his mistress and their newborn baby,” she began.
I was horrified.
“Matthew told me to keep it a secret from you, Abbie,” she continued. “His mistress had nowhere to go, so he brought her here. He’s planning to spend money from your joint account to rent them an apartment. He told me he is going to divorce you and stay with his mistress. She’s… barely 19.”
I felt like the ground had just been pulled out from under me.
My vision blurred with tears as I struggled to comprehend her words.
“He… he’s what?” I stammered.
A woman in tears | Source: Pexels
“I’m sorry for lying to you about his whereabouts and not telling the truth earlier, ” she continued. “I didn’t know what to do since he is my son… I needed some time to think about everything. But you are also family to me and the mother to my grandkids, whom I love dearly. That’s why I decided to tell you the truth. Abbie, you still have time. You can find a lawyer and save your money for the sake of your kids.”
I was shaking, a mix of anger, betrayal, and heartbreak surging through me.
“I can’t believe this,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Thank you for telling me. I-I need to protect my children and myself.”
Ending the call, I sat in stunned silence, the reality of my situation crashing down on me. Matthew, the man I trusted and loved, was planning to abandon us for another woman.
The kids sensed something was wrong. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?” my youngest asked, her big eyes filled with confusion.
“He’s not coming back, sweetheart,” I said, pulling her into a tight hug. “But we have each other, and we’ll be okay.”
I could hardly believe what my mother-in-law had told me, but I had to keep moving forward for my kids. I immediately contacted a lawyer.
As we discussed my options, I received a call from an unknown number. I hesitated before answering.
“Hi, Abbie? It’s Lisa. I’m the woman Matthew has been seeing. I need to talk to you,” came the voice on the other end.
A chill ran down my spine. “How dare you!” I snapped. “How dare you call me?”
“Please, just meet me. There’s something you need to know, something important. It’s about your family,” she pleaded.
I was seething. I would’ve never agreed to see her face had I not sensed helplessness in her voice.
“Alright. Where do you want to meet?” I asked.
“Do you know that old café on street 8? 6 p.m. Does that work?”
At 6 p.m. sharp, I walked into the café, my eyes searching for her. When I first saw Lisa’s picture, I couldn’t believe Mathew could’ve dated a girl so young.
She was already there at a corner booth.
“Thank you for coming,” she said as I sat down.
“Why did you want to meet?” I asked.
“Matthew told me he was going to leave you, but I didn’t know he was going to abandon you like this. I didn’t agree to any of this,” she began.
“Why should I believe you?” I asked, folding my arms defensively.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of papers.
“These are emails and messages from Matthew. He said horrible things about you, things I know aren’t true. He’s been manipulating both of us.”
I took the papers and began to read.
My hands trembled with rage as I saw the lies and deceit laid bare. “I can’t believe this,” I muttered, shaking my head.
Lisa looked at me earnestly. “He’s planning to take everything from you. But I don’t want any part of it. I want to help you.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, stunned.
“Because I didn’t know what kind of man he really was until it was too late. I want to make things right, at least in some small way,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
I looked at her, seeing the genuine remorse and desperation in her face. Maybe she was telling the truth.
“Alright,” I said slowly. “If you’re serious about helping, we need to gather as much evidence as we can. I need to protect my children and secure our future.”
We spent the next hour discussing our plan. Lisa shared more details about Matthew’s schemes, and we started forming an unlikely alliance.
It felt strange to trust the woman who had been with my husband, but her willingness to help gave me hope.
The next morning, I sat in my lawyer’s office.
“We need to confront him together. But first, I need to secure my finances and make sure he can’t take anything more from us,” I told my lawyer, Kate.
“With the information Lisa provided, we can freeze the joint accounts and protect your assets,” she assured me.
We went through the details step by step.
Kate filed the necessary paperwork to freeze our joint accounts and secure my assets.
It felt like a race against time, but I knew we had to be thorough.
Every piece of information Lisa had given us was crucial.
One evening, I sat at the kitchen table, paperwork spread out in front of me.
My mother-in-law had come over to help with the kids. She brought me a cup of tea and sat down across from me.
“You’re doing the right thing, Abbie,” she said softly. “I am so sorry for what my son is putting you through.”
“Only Matthew can be blamed for what’s happening, Claire. Nobody saw this coming, not even Lisa,” I replied, sipping the tea. “I’m so grateful to you for your support.”
“You’re stronger than you think,” she said, reassuringly squeezing my hand. “I’m always with you, okay?”
Finally, the day came when everything was in place. I took a deep breath and walked up to my mother-in-law’s door with Lisa by my side. The authorities followed closely behind, ready to enforce the legal actions we had taken.
As we entered, Matthew looked up, shocked to see us.
Abbie, what are you doing here?” he demanded, his eyes darting between me and Lisa.
“It’s over, Matthew,” I said firmly. “We know everything. Your lies, your betrayal, and your plans. You won’t get away with it.”
“What is this? You can’t do this to me!” he shouted, his face turning red with anger.
Lisa stepped forward, her voice calm but resolute. “We already have. You’re not going to hurt anyone else.”
The police officers moved in, presenting the legal documents.
“Mr. Johnson, you need to come with us. You’re being served with a restraining order and an order to vacate the premises,” one of them said.
Matthew looked around, his bravado crumbling. “This isn’t fair,” he muttered, his voice wavering as he tried to find some way to wriggle out of the situation.
“Oh, it’s perfectly fair, ex-husband,” I replied, holding up the divorce papers. “You made your choices, and now you face the consequences.”
As the officers escorted him out, a wave of relief and exhaustion washed over me. I turned to Lisa and my mother-in-law, who stood by my side, their support unwavering.
“Thank you,” I said, tears of relief streaming down my face. “I couldn’t have done this without you two.”
I was crying again, but they were tears of hope and gratitude this time. It was time to rebuild and move forward.
What would you have done?
If you enjoyed this story, here’s another one: Harry was shocked when medical tests revealed the twin boys he had raised as his sons weren’t his. Furious, he went home to confront his wife, only to learn a truth that would ruin their family forever.
At 55, I Got a Ticket to Greece from a Man I Met Online, But I Wasn’t the One Who Arrived — Story of the Day
At 55, I flew to Greece to meet the man I’d fallen for online. But when I knocked on his door, someone else was already there—wearing my name and living my story.
All my life, I had been building a fortress. Brick by brick.
No towers. No knights. Just a microwave that beeped like a heart monitor, kids’ lunchboxes that always smelled like apples, dried-out markers, and sleepless nights.
I raised my daughter alone.
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Her father disappeared when she was three.
“Like the autumn wind blowing off a calendar,” I once said to my best friend Rosemary, “one page gone, no warning.”
I didn’t have time to cry.
There was rent to pay, clothes to wash, and fevers to battle. Some nights, I fell asleep in jeans, with spaghetti on my shirt. But I made it work. No nanny, no child support, no pity.
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And then… my girl grew up.
She married a sweet, freckled guy who called me ma’am and carried her bags like she was glass. Moved to another state. Started a life. She still called every Sunday.
“Hi, Mom! Guess what? I made lasagna without burning it!”
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I smiled every time.
“I’m proud of you, baby.”
Then, one morning, after her honeymoon, I sat in the kitchen holding my chipped mug and looked around. It was so quiet. No one to shout, “Where’s my math book!” No ponytails bouncing through the hallway. No spilled juice to clean.
Just 55-year-old me. And silence.
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Loneliness doesn’t slam into your chest. It slips in through the window, soft like dusk.
You stop cooking authentic meals. You stop buying dresses. You sit with a blanket, watching rom-coms, and think:
“I don’t need grand passion. Just someone to sit next to me. Breathe beside me. That would be enough.”
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And that’s when Rosemary burst into my life again, like a glitter bomb in a church.
“Then sign up for a dating site!” she said one afternoon, stomping into my living room in heels too high for logic.
“Rose, I’m 55. I’d rather bake bread.”
She rolled her eyes and dropped onto my couch.
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“You’ve been baking bread for ten years! Enough already. It’s time you finally baked a man.”
I laughed. “You make it sound like I can sprinkle him with cinnamon and put him in the oven.”
“Honestly, that would be easier than dating at our age,” she muttered, yanking out her laptop. “Come here. We’re doing this.”
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“Let me just find a photo where I don’t look like a saint or a school principal,” I said, scrolling through my camera roll.
“Oh! This one,” she said, holding up a picture from my niece’s wedding. “Soft smile. Shoulder exposed. Elegant but mysterious. Perfect.”
She clicked and scrolled like a professional speed dater.
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“Too much teeth. Too many fish. Why are they always holding fish?” Rosemary mumbled.
Then she froze.
“Wait. Here. Look.”
And there it was:
“Andreas58, Greece.”
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I leaned closer. A quiet smile. A tiny stone house with blue shutters in the background. A garden. Olive trees.
“Looks like he smells like olives and calm mornings,” I said.
“Ooooh,” Rosemary grinned. “And he messaged you FIRST!”
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“He did?”
She clicked. His messages were short. No emojis. No exclamation marks. But warm. Grounded. Real. He told me about his garden, the sea, baking fresh bread with rosemary, and collecting salt from the rocks.
And on the third day… he wrote:
“I’d love to invite you to visit me, Martha. Here, in Paros.”
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I just stared at the screen. My heart thudded like it hadn’t in years.
Am I still alive if I’m afraid of romance again? Could I really leave my little fortress? For an olive man?
I needed Rosemary. So I called her.
“Dinner tonight. Bring pizza. And whatever that fearless energy of yours is made of.”
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***
“This is karma!” Rosemary shouted. “I’ve been digging through dating sites for six months like an archaeologist with a shovel, and you—bam!—you’ve got a ticket to Greece already!”
“It’s not a ticket. It’s just a message.”
“From a Greek man. Who owns olive trees. That’s basically a Nicholas Sparks novel in sandals.”
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“Rosemary, I can’t just run off like that. This isn’t a trip to IKEA. This is a man. In a foreign country. He might be a bot from Pinterest, for all I know.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes. “Let’s be smart about this. Ask him for pictures—of his garden, the view from his house, I don’t care. If he’s fake, it’ll show.”
“And if he’s not?”
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“Then you pack your swimsuit and fly.”
I laughed, but wrote to him. He replied within the hour. The photos came in like a soft breeze.
The first showed a crooked stone path lined with lavender. The second—a little donkey with sleepy eyes standing. The third—a whitewashed house with blue shutters and a faded green chair.
And then… a final photo. A plane ticket. My name on it. Flight in four days.
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I stared at the screen like it was a magic trick. I blinked twice. Still there.
“Is this happening? Is this actually… real?”
“Let me see! Oh, God! Of course, real, silly! Pack your bags,” Rosemary exclaimed.
“Nope. Nope. I’m not going. At my age? Flying into the arms of a stranger? This is how people end up in documentaries!”
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Rosemary didn’t say anything at first. Just kept chewing her pizza.
Then she sighed. “Okay. I get it. It’s a lot.”
I nodded, hugging my arms around myself.
***
That night, after she left, I was curled on the couch under my favorite blanket when my phone buzzed.
Text from Rosemary: “Imagine! I got an invitation too! Flying to my Jean in Bordeaux. Yay!”
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“Jean?” I frowned. “She never even mentioned a Jean.”
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then, I got up, walked to my desk, and opened the dating site. I had an irresistible desire to write to him, to thank him and accept his proposition. But the screen was empty.
His profile—gone. Our messages—gone. Everything—gone.
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He must’ve removed his account. Probably thought I ghosted him. But I still had the address. He had sent it in one of the early messages. I’d scribbled it on the back of a grocery receipt.
Moreover, I had the photo. And the plane ticket.
If not now, then when? If not me—then who?
I walked to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea, and whispered into the night,
“Screw it. I’m going to Greece.”
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***
As I stepped off the ferry in Paros, the sun hit me like a soft, warm slap.
The air smelled different. Not like home. There, it was saltier. Wilder. I pulled my little suitcase behind me—it thumped like a stubborn child refusing to be dragged through adventure.
Past sleepy cats stretched on windowsills like they’d ruled the island for centuries. Past grandmothers in black scarves were sweeping their doorsteps.
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I followed the blue dot on my phone screen. My heart pounded like it hadn’t in years.
What if he’s not there? What if it’s all a weird dream, and I’m standing in front of a stranger’s house in Greece?
I paused at the gate. Deep breath. Shoulders back. My fingers hovered over the bell. Ding. The door creaked open.
Wait… What?! No way! Rosemary!
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Barefoot. Wearing a flowing white dress. Her lipstick was fresh. Her hair was curled into soft waves. She looked like a yogurt commercial came to life.
“Rosemary? Weren’t you supposed to be in France?”
She tilted her head like a curious cat.
“Hello,” she purred. “You came? Oh, darling, that’s so unlike you! You said you weren’t flying. So I decided… to take the chance.”
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“You’re pretending to be me?”
“Technically, I created your account. Taught you everything. You were my… project. I just went to the final presentation.”
“But… how? Andreas’s account disappeared. And the messages, too.”
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“Oh, I saved the address, deleted your messages, and removed Andreas from your friends. Just in case you changed your mind. I didn’t know you knew how to save photos or the ticket.”
I wanted to scream. To cry. To slam the suitcase down and yell. But I didn’t. Just then, another shadow moved toward the door.
Andreas…
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“Hi, ladies.” He looked from me to her.
Rosemary immediately latched onto him, grabbing his arm.
“This is my friend Rosemary. She just happened to come. We told you about her, remember?”
“I came because of your invitation. But…”
He looked at me. His eyes were dark like the sea waves.
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“Well… that’s strange. Martha already arrived earlier, but…”
“I’m Martha!” I blurted.
Rosemary chirped sweetly.
“Oh, Andreas, my friend just got a bit anxious about me leaving. She always babysat me. So she must’ve flown here to check if everything’s fine—and you’re not a scammer.”
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Andreas was clearly charmed by Rosemary. He laughed at her antics.
“Alright then… Stay. You can figure things out. We’ve got enough room here.”
Whatever magic was supposed to be there—it had been hijacked…
My friend was playing against me. But I had a chance to stay and set things straight. Andreas deserved the truth, even if it wasn’t as sparkling as Rosemary.
“I’ll stay,” I smiled, accepting the rules of Rosemary’s game.
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***
Dinner was delicious, the view was perfect, and the mood—tight, like Rosemary’s silk blouse after a croissant.
She was all smiles and giggles, filling the air with her voice like perfume with nowhere else to go.
“Andreas, do you have any grandkids?” Rosemary purred.
Finally! There it was. My chance.
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I set down my fork slowly, looked up with the calmest face I could manage, and said, “Didn’t he tell you he has a grandson named Richard?”
Rosemary’s face flickered, just for a second. Then she lit up.
“Oh, right! Your… Richard!”
I smiled politely.
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“Oh, Andreas,” I added, looking straight at him, “but you don’t have a grandson. It’s a granddaughter. Rosie. She wears pink hair ties and loves drawing cats on the walls. And her favorite donkey—what’s his name again? Oh, that’s right. ‘Professor.'”
The table went quiet. Andreas turned to look at Rosemary. She froze, then let out a nervous chuckle.
“Andreas,” she said softly, trying to sound playful, “I think Rosemary is joking strangely. You know my memory…”
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Her hand reached for her glass, and I noticed it trembled.
Mistake one. But I am not done.
“And Andreas, don’t you share the same hobby as Martha? It’s so sweet how you both enjoy the same things.”
Rosemary frowned for a moment… then lit up. “Oh yes! Antique shops! Andreas, that’s wonderful. What was your latest find? I bet this island has tons of little treasures!”
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Andreas set down his fork.
“There are no antique shops here. And I’m not into antiques.”
Mistake number two. Rosemary is on the hook now. I continue.
“Of course, Andreas. You restore old furniture. You told me the last thing you made was a beautiful table still in your garage. Remember you’re supposed to sell it to a woman down the street?”
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Andreas frowned, then turned to Rosemary.
“You’re not Martha. How did I not see this right away? Show me your passport, please.”
She tried to laugh it off. “Oh, come on, don’t be dramatic…”
But passports don’t joke. A minute later, everything was on the table like the check at a restaurant. No surprises. Just an unpleasant truth.
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“I’m sorry,” Andreas said softly, turning back to Rosemary. “But I didn’t invite you.”
Rosemary’s smile cracked. She stood up fast.
“Real Martha’s boring! She’s quiet, always thinking things through, and never improvises! With her, it’ll feel like living in a museum!”
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“That’s exactly why I fell for her. For her attention to detail. For the pauses. For not rushing into things: because she wasn’t chasing thrills, she was seeking truth.”
“Oh, I just seized the moment to build happiness!” Rosemary yelled. “Martha was too slow and less invested than I was.”
“You cared more about the itinerary than the person,” Andreas replied. “You asked about the size of the house, the internet speed, the beaches. Martha… she knows what color ribbons Rosie wears.”
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Rosemary huffed and grabbed her bag.
“Well, suit yourself! But you’ll run from her in three days. You’ll get tired of the silence. And the buns daily.”
She stormed around the house like a hurricane, stuffing clothes into her suitcase with the fury of a tornado in heels. Then—slam. The door shook in its frame.
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Andreas and I just sat there on the terrace. The sea whispered in the distance. The night wrapped around us like a soft shawl.
We drank herbal tea without a word.
“Stay for a week,” he said after a while.
I looked at him. “What if I never want to leave?”
“Then we’ll buy another toothbrush.”
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And the following week…
We laughed. We baked buns. We picked olives with sticky fingers. We walked along the shore, not saying much.
I didn’t feel like a guest. I didn’t feel like someone passing through. I felt alive. And I felt… at home.
Andreas asked me to stay a bit longer. And I… wasn’t in a rush to go back.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
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