Dear ex-Wife please be mine again

Two weeks had passed since my world had crumbled to dust. My days were now spent scrubbing floors and sweeping at dingy restaurant, the smell of grease and old food clinging to my clothes.

My boss, a perpetually sour–faced woman named Karen, took every opportunity to remind me of my fall from grace. We were only two waiters and one was on leave.

“Christiana, get over here and clean this mess!” Karen barked, pointing to a spill near the kitchen. “And hurry up! Table three is waiting for their drinks!”

The restaurant was overwhelming, with rowdy customers demanding my attention. I rushed from table to table, my hands red and raw from constant cleaning, trying to keep up with the never–ending stream of orders and complaints.

“Miss! Where’s my coffee?” a gruff man called out, waving his hand impatiently. “And bring some more napkins while you’re at

it!”

As I hurried to fulfill the customers‘ requests, the sound of the television caught my ear. The news anchor’s voice cut through the chaos, and my heart sank as I recognized the topic of discussion.

“In today’s celebrity news, billionaire Alex Davis has finalized his divorce from his wife Christiana Davis and is now officially with fashion icon Bianca.

I froze, the tray in my hands trembling. On the screen, images and videos of Alex and Bianca flashed by, the two of them looking every bit the perfect couple. They smiled for the cameras, their hands entwined, their eyes filled with a happiness that felt like a knife twisting in my heart.

The customers around me began to chatter, their voices blending into a cacophony of judgment and gossip.

“Did you hear about Alex Davis? Finally got rid of that wife of his,” one man said with a laugh. “Can’t blame him, though. She couldn’t even give him a kid.”

“Yeah, I heard she was pretty useless, another woman chimed in. “Bianca is a much better match for him. She’s gorgeous and successful.

My face burned with humiliation and pain as I listened to their cruel words. They didn’t know they were talking about me, the woman who was serving them. Each comment was like a dagger, cutting deeper into my already shattered heart.

“I feel bad for that ex–wife of his, a lone voice spoke up. I turned to see a middle–aged woman shaking her head. “Imagine how she must feel, seeing her husband move on so quickly. It’s just so sad.”

Karen’s shrill voice snapped me back to reality. “Christiana, stop dawdling and get back to work! Those tables won’t serve themselves!

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to keep moving. As I continued to serve the oblivious customers, their words echoed in my mind, each one a reminder of my perceived failures and the life I had lost.

The image of Alex and Bianca haunted me, their smiles mocking my misery. How had things gone so wrong? How could the man I had loved so deeply, sacrificed so much for, move on so easily?

Oh, I almost forgot. She had always been there.

The pain was almost unbearable, but I held myself together, refusing to let them see me break.

As the night wore on, the news segment continued, detailing the glamorous life Alex and Bianca were now living. I scrubbed the floors harder, trying to erase the hurt with every stroke of the brush. But no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the ache in my heart.

By the time my shift ended, I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I sank into a chair in the back of the restaurant, the weight of the day pressing down on me. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t afford to cry. Not here, not now.

Instead, I took a deep breath and stared at my reflection in the dirty window. I was stronger than this.

No one had come to my aid when I needed it most. Friends turned their backs, and even those I thought I could rely on had chosen sides, believing the lies Alex spread about me. It was Karen, the hot–tempered owner of the small restaurant, who took

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Chapter å

pity on me. She offered me food and shelter in exchange for my work

Scrubbing floors and serving unruly customers was a far cry from the life I had known. Each day was a struggle to hold onto my dignity while performing menial tasks, enduring Karen’s never–ending criticism, and facing the pitying or judgmental glances of those who had heard the news when they by chance ran into me.

One afternoon, after enduring another grueling shift, I found myself staring into the bathroom mirror, my reflection a ghost of the woman I once was,

My eyes, red and puffy from lack of sleep and constant tears, stared back at me. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit me hard, and I barely made it to the toilet before retching violently. My body trembled, and I felt weak and lightheaded as I sat on the cold tile floor, trying to regain my composure.

Two hours later, I found myself in a sterile doctor’s office, the harsh fluorescent lights making everything seem even more surreal. Dr. Patel, a kindly older man with a gentle demeanor, had just returned with the results of my blood test.

“Ms. Christiana,” he began, his voice calm but serious, ‘you’re pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, almost incomprehensible. “Pregnant?” I echoed, my voice barely more than a whisper. “How how can that be? I was told I couldn’t have children.”

Dr. Patel gave me a sympathetic look. “Sometimes, the body can surprise us. But I assure you, the test is accurate. You’re approximately three weeks along This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

I shook my head, struggling to process the information. “No, there must be some mistake. I was told I was barren. This can’t be right.” My hands trembled as I clutched at the chair’s armrests, trying to anchor myself in this revelation.

He handed me the test results, the undeniable proof staring up at me in black and white. I traced the words with my finger, still in shock. Pregnant. How could this be?

“You’re sure?” I asked again, my voice breaking.

Dr. Patel nodded, his expression gentle but firm. I’m certain, Ms. Christiana. Congratulations.”

Congratulations? The word felt foreign, almost mocking. I was at a loss for words. Pregnant with Alex’s child. The last time we had been intimate was ten days before the divorce. It hadn’t been an act of passion or love; it had felt more like a duty to him. He didn’t hold me lovingly, didn’t kiss me. His mind had clearly been elsewhere. And now, despite everything, I was pregnant?

I left the doctor’s office in a daze, the world around me feeling distant and unreal. The irony of the situation was overwhelming.

Alex had divorced me because I couldn’t give him children, and now, he

re I was, carrying his child. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.