Can it be real?

Dearest Overthinkers…

Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I’m losing my mind.

Would you believe me if I told you I think there’s a girl lying about her entire life to impress me?

Because I do.

Bear with me. It gets strange.

Let’s go back to the beginning.

It was the tail end of spring and work had descended into chaos. We’d practically doubled in size overnight but didn’t have the staff to survive it. Management had been searching for weeks — no luck — until she walked in for an interview.

She had it all. The soft eyes. The easy smile. That laugh that makes people lean in. On first impression she looked like the missing piece. She spoke well, sold herself beautifully, and was given a trial to prove her enthusiasm wasn’t just words on a CV.

She smashed it.

Pressure suited her. She thrived. She left that day grinning — and we were relieved.

We’re the kind of workplace that bonds fast. When you work in chaos, you cling to each other. Stories are told. Hearts are opened. Trauma, love, heartbreak — it all spills out eventually.

That’s when her first story began.

You know the one. Dad goes out for milk and doesn’t come back. It’s her, her mum, the siblings — the classic setup. Then Dad returns, but she’s no longer wanted. Off to an adoption agency she goes. New family. New siblings. A whirlwind of names no one can quite keep track of.

A year later, Dad wants her back. She’s uprooted again. Back home. Love–hate relationship restored. Mum and Dad marry. They move house. School finally enters the plot.

Then come the older men. The rebellion. The high school pregnancy. Unplanned, of course. Father not involved. Rumours at school. Unsupportive parents. She hides the pregnancy until the baby arrives.

But only family knows.

Years pass. The child grows — apparently. Yet no photos ever surface. No casual “look how cute” moments. She still lives at home. No visible support. The child shares her single bed in what she describes as a shoebox of a room.

More men come and go. Another unplanned pregnancy. This time the father stays. There’s a ring. Engagement. Happy family energy — except they live separately.

Plans are made.

Here’s where it twists.

She hasn’t told anyone at home she’s pregnant. Not a soul. Her mum even gets her a job at her workplace. Life continues as normal.

Until one day it doesn’t.

She goes into labour in the bathroom at work — an emergency service station, no less. Panic. Staff scrambling. No one knows what to do. Her mum is off that day.

Somehow, miraculously, the baby is delivered.

No ambulance is called.

She is sent home with a newborn.

Her mum is phoned and told to “bring a car seat — you’re a grandmother again.”

Congratulations, I suppose.

But wait — it’s not celebratory. Because when she gets home, fiancé doesn’t want her anymore. The engagement is off. He’s gone back to his other child’s mother.

Heartbreak.

We feel for her. We rally around her. She talks about trauma stacking on trauma. Mental health issues multiplying. We nod. We sympathise.

And then the next chapter begins.

She’s engaged again. This time to a man who lives far away. He knew she was “the one” after two weeks. He needs rescuing from his toxic family. So she pays for his food. His clothes. Her children call him Dad.

He never comes to stay.

Understandable, perhaps — there are already three in a bed: her, one child curled in her arms, the baby at her feet. Not much room for a fiancé.

But salvation arrives — his grandmother buys him a mansion. Two-car driveway. Garden the size of a field. Four bedrooms. Three bathrooms. A fresh start.

Then tragedy strikes.

A child dies.

He can’t cope with the grief. He leaves.

Her mourning period is brief. Life must go on. Babies must continue.

Enter the next man. Also long-distance. Also two weeks in. They’re house hunting.

And she’s pregnant.

Two weeks pregnant — and already had a scan.

Pause.

Two weeks?

That’s not how that works.

Oh wait — correction. The scan was for twins from her previous relationship. She lost one. But the surviving baby is definitely the new man’s.

Of course.

I’m struggling now. Who is the father? Does work know you’re pregnant? For your safety, they should.

Oops. I told them. Sorry.

Her hours get cut. She’s moving into her new place. Time off to celebrate. To settle.

Then a message appears:

“We never met you, but we loved you. Heaven gained an angel.”

Another loss.

So soon after moving in. So tragic.

How did her child take it? The one who was excited for a sibling?

Silence.

Did she forget the remaining child? There are no updates. No bedroom set-up. No small anecdotes. No life.

More silence.

She returns to work as if nothing happened. Mentions needing stitches after the loss.

Is that standard practice?

Still — no photos. Not one. Not ever. Not in passing. Not accidentally. Not proudly.

Have you lost track of what you’ve told us?

Are the children real?

I may be the villain in this story.

But I don’t think they are.