A wealthy married man, known for his charm and high social standing, had been carrying on a secret affair with an alluring Italian woman he had met at a luxurious resort several months earlier. Their clandestine meetings were filled with stolen glances, whispered promises, and the thrill of danger. However, the man always knew he was walking a tightrope between passion and scandal.
One evening, as they sat together in a quiet, dimly lit café overlooking the Mediterranean, the woman nervously stirred her espresso. Finally, she looked him straight in the eyes and confessed, “I’m pregnant.” Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of consequences.
The man felt his heart skip a beat. Panic, guilt, and calculation flooded his mind at once. He knew that if the truth ever came out, his marriage and reputation would be shattered. After a long pause, he collected himself and leaned in, whispering a proposal that combined secrecy with control.
“I’ll send you money,” he said carefully, “enough to live comfortably and raise the child. Move to Italy, stay there, and I’ll provide child support until the child turns 18. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
The woman, who had grown to care for him despite the affair, hesitated. “And how will you know when the baby is born?” she asked.
He smiled, a touch of mischief in his expression, and said, “It’s simple. Send me a postcard. On the back, just write the word ‘Spaghetti’. When I receive it, I’ll know the baby has arrived, and I’ll take care of everything.”
Months passed. The man tried to continue life as usual, attending elegant dinners, managing his business empire, and maintaining a cheerful demeanor at home. One day, he returned from a business trip to find his wife waiting in the living room, holding an envelope in her hands. Her eyebrow arched in curiosity.
“Here,” she said, handing him the postcard. “This is… well, it’s a bit unusual.”
He forced a smile, hoping to remain calm. “Oh, just give it to me. I’ll explain later,” he said, taking the card with an air of nonchalance.
But as he read the words written on the back, his face drained of color. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the nearest chair, eyes wide with shock.
The card read:
“Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti. Two with meatballs, one without sauce.”
The man’s mind raced. He realized immediately that his careful, secret plan had been reduced to an absurd, inescapable reality—and the precise details of his children’s births had been delivered with unmistakable culinary clarity.
His wife, watching the scene unfold, simply shook her head and muttered, “Well… at least they all like Italian food.”
