Lila had always imagined her wedding day as a fairy tale, a moment where everything fell perfectly into place. She met Tom three years ago at a coffee shop—he was witty, kind, and had a smile that could light up a room. Everyone said he was a catch. But there was one thing about him that gnawed at her, a secret resentment she buried deep: he was 5’4”. She was 5’7”, and in heels, she towered over him. It shouldn’t have mattered, she told herself. He was wonderful. But it did.

The wedding was beautiful—white roses, a string quartet, a cake that cost more than her car. Yet, as she stood at the altar, her friends’ giggles echoed in her ears. They’d teased her relentlessly during the bachelorette party: “Lila’s marrying a hobbit!” “Hope you don’t lose him in the crowd!” She’d laughed it off, but at the reception, when her maid of honor, Claire, took the mic, the jabs kept coming. “To Lila and Tom—proof that love doesn’t measure height! Just don’t ask her to reach the top shelf!” The room erupted in laughter. Tom squeezed her hand, oblivious to the heat rising in her cheeks. She smiled, but inside, the resentment grew.

A year passed, and their marriage settled into a quiet rhythm. Tom was still wonderful—cooking dinner, leaving her sweet notes, planning a future. But they hit a wall: they couldn’t conceive. Months of tests, tears, and tense silences wore them down. Lila blamed him silently, irrationally, as if his height somehow explained it. She never said it aloud, but the thought festered.

Then, one Tuesday at the grocery store, she ran into Jake. He’d been her neighbor growing up—a lanky kid who’d shot up in high school and filled out in all the right ways. Now, at 6’5” and sculpted like a gym god, he was unrecognizable yet familiar. They chatted by the produce, laughing about old times. He was single, back in town for a job. “We should catch up,” he said, his voice low and easy. She agreed without hesitation.

Dinner was at a dimly lit Italian place. Jake was charming, confident, everything Tom wasn’t in her secret, bitter tally. One glass of wine turned into three, and soon they were at his apartment, the air thick with unspoken tension. She hadn’t planned it, but when he kissed her, she didn’t pull away. The night blurred into a rush of heat and abandon. He was insatiable, and she was swept up in it—unprotected, reckless, thrilling. They went again, and when he finished, it was messy, wild, dripping into her hair. She didn’t care. For once, she felt alive.

She stumbled home after midnight, disheveled but buzzing. Tom was on the couch, half-asleep with a book. He looked up, his eyes catching the glint of something tangled in her hair. He froze, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. She mumbled about a spill at dinner and hurried to the shower. He didn’t ask. Maybe he knew he couldn’t measure up—not to a 6’5” ghost he’d never met.

A month later, the test was positive. Lila cried with relief; Tom cried with joy. He spun her around, talking about cribs and names, oblivious to the truth. She smiled, cradling the secret like a blade. The baby wasn’t his. It was Jake’s—a towering shadow her husband would never suspect. And as Tom beamed, she wondered how long she could keep pretending.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5708572&forum_id=2#48834162)