One phone call nearly shattered everything.
It was a regular Tuesday. Nick had stepped out for his usual morning run, leaving his phone buzzing on the kitchen counter. His wife, Ava, barely noticed—until she saw the caller ID light up: “Lincoln Elementary School.”
Confused, she hesitated. Then curiosity took over, and she answered.
“Hi! Just letting you know your daughter isn’t feeling well. Could someone come pick her up?”
Ava froze.
They didn’t have a daughter.
The words echoed in her ears. Her pulse quickened, thoughts racing in every direction. Was Nick hiding something? A child? A secret life? Another woman?
By the time Nick returned, sweaty and smiling from his run, Ava’s entire world had tilted. She stood in the kitchen, pale and trembling, phone clutched tight.
“Who’s your daughter, Nick?” she demanded.
His face twisted in confusion. “What? Ava, what are you talking about?”
She explained, voice shaking. He insisted he had no idea. But once the seed of doubt is planted, it’s hard to pull it out. For days, Ava couldn’t sleep. Every glance, every unanswered text, every late jog became suspicious.
So on Saturday morning, she followed him.
From a distance, she watched him jog down to the park and meet a small group of runners. They stretched, joked, handed out water bottles—nothing unusual. Still, she stayed hidden, heart hammering.
Then she saw it: one man borrowing Nick’s phone. He typed, dialed, and handed it back.
Ava’s stomach dropped.
Later that evening, when she finally confessed to following him, Nick laughed in disbelief. Then he called his friend—who sheepishly admitted that his own phone had died that day, so he’d used Nick’s to call his daughter’s school. The school’s automated system had saved Nick’s number instead of the real father’s.
A ridiculous, innocent mix-up.
Ava felt her face burn with relief and embarrassment. Then both of them started laughing—hard.
Now, whenever Nick laces up for a run, he grins and calls out, “Off to see my secret family!” She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.
And when he crosses the marathon finish line, she’s always there—cheering the loudest—knowing that sometimes, trust doesn’t need therapy.
Just a little jog to clear the air.
