I Paid a Fortune Teller’s Bus Fare – The Note She Slipped Me Uncovered a Terrible Secret
It was a gray morning in California, the kind that made you feel like the universe hit snooze. My one-year-old son, Jamie, was in his stroller, feverish from a long night, his tiny breaths fogging the plastic cover. My wife Paulina had been my everything, but she passed away during childbirth, leaving me alone with Jamie, my anchor.
“Almost there, buddy,” I whispered, adjusting his blanket. I touched his forehead, remembering the sleepless night. “Your mama would know exactly what to do,” I added, my voice thick.
On the bus, an older woman, Miss Moonshadow, couldn’t afford the fare and offered to read the driver’s fortune in exchange. I paid for her, and she handed me a folded note, whispering, “You’ll need it. Sometimes, the truth hurts before it heals.” I tucked it into my pocket.
At the pediatrician’s office, I unfolded the note, and the words shocked me: “He’s not your son.” The doubt gnawed at me as I tried to focus on Jamie.
Days later, I ordered a DNA test. The results came: Jamie wasn’t mine. My world shattered. I went to Paulina’s mom, Joyce, with the results. She tearfully confessed that Paulina had been uncertain about Jamie’s paternity before she passed, and they kept it from me.
“He’s still your son,” Joyce whispered, but the pain of the betrayal left me numb. That night, sitting beside Jamie’s crib, I realized the truth: he might not be mine by blood, but he was mine in every other way that mattered.
“Being a father is about choice,” I whispered to Jamie, holding his hand. “And I choose you.”
