I was traveling abroad for work when, on the third day, I received a message from my wife urging me to come home immediately because our son had been in an accident. I rushed back as fast as I could. When I arrived, my wife looked at me in shock and said, “I never sent you that text.”
I showed her the message on my phone. Her face went pale. “That wasn’t me,” she whispered. “Our son is fine.” Then she told me the real reason she had planned to contact me: she had found out she was pregnant the day I left and wanted to surprise me, but she’d started feeling sick and decided to wait.
Joy hit me at the thought of becoming a father again, but it was quickly replaced by dread. Neither of us could explain how that message had been sent from her number. As we stood there, stunned, another text arrived: “Be careful. Your boy is not well.”
We tried to figure out who could have sent the messages, but we never found an answer. Eventually, we convinced ourselves my phone must have been hacked and tried to move on, since nothing else strange happened.
Months later, my wife suffered an unexpected miscarriage. We lost a baby boy. Ten years have passed, but thinking about it still sends chills down my spine.