I was struggling—barely getting by, working double shifts at the diner, taking care of my five-year-old son, and counting change just to afford gas. Life was heavy, but I was used to the weight. I never asked for help. Never expected miracles.
Then *she* walked in.
This woman… tall, perfectly styled hair, sleek black dress, pearls around her neck. The kind of woman who didn’t know what it felt like to choose between dinner and rent. She sat at my table like she owned the air in the room. Calm. Poised. Cold.
I wiped my hands on my apron and gave her my practiced smile. “What can I get for you?”
She didn’t even glance at the menu. Instead, she set down her designer purse, then a manila envelope, and folded her hands like this was a business meeting.
“I’m here with a proposal,” she said.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
She leaned forward, eyes boring into mine. “I want you to tell my grandson that your baby is his. I’ll pay you \$70,000.”
I actually laughed. I thought she had me confused with someone else. But her face didn’t change. Not even a twitch.
“Wait, are you *serious*?” I asked.
She nodded. “Dead serious. Listen, my grandson—Landon—is being reckless. Wasting his trust fund, refusing to grow up. His parents are no longer here, and I’m the only one left trying to give him direction. If he thinks he has a child, it might shake him into reality. You… you have a certain ‘look’ I can work with. The story will be believable.”
My skin crawled. “I’m not going to lie to someone about *something like that.*”
She tilted her head. “I understand you have a son. Imagine what seventy thousand could do for his future. Private school. Better housing. A clean slate. You wouldn’t have to work nights anymore. No one gets hurt. You just tell a story, and walk away once the job’s done.”
I stared at her. I *did* think about it. About the bills stacked on my fridge. My son’s worn-out shoes. How tired I was. How tired I *always* was.
But then I imagined someone lying to *my* son about something so huge. About family. About love. About the truth.
I stood up slowly and leaned across the table. “Lady, you must think I’m desperate enough to sell my dignity. You’re wrong.”
Her lips curled. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” I said. “I’m just not raising my son to believe lies are how you fix people.”
She scoffed, stood, grabbed her purse and envelope, and walked out without another word.
A few weeks later, I got a letter in the mail. No return address.
Inside was a check for \$5,000… and a note that read:
**“For your integrity. The world needs more of it. Don’t ever let go of that.”**
Turns out, it *was* a test. Landon’s grandmother was trying to see who still had a soul in a world where money usually buys anything.
And for once, not selling mine paid off.
