This Certificate is a Fake

Evelyn's POV

After 8 years of marriage and a daughter together, I held my marriage certificate to pick up my daughter’s medication.

Only to be stopped cold by the pharmacy clerk.

Her voice sharp with impatience: “This certificate needs to be verified by the municipal office first, ma’am.”

My heart skipped a beat.

Sophie, my 6-year-old, fidgeted beside me. She clutched her teddy bear tightly, her small legs swinging restlessly as she sensed my unease.

I stared at the prescription in my hand, confused and flustered.

This certificate had never failed me before—when Sophie was hospitalized with a high fever last year, when we bought our shared apartment, even when we opened our joint bank account.

It had always been accepted without a second glance.

Why now? Why when my daughter needed her follow-up medication the most?

I didn’t waste a minute.

Grabbing Sophie’s hand, I rushed to the municipal office. My mind raced with worst-case scenarios.

The wait felt like an eternity.

When I finally sat in front of the stern-faced clerk, I could barely keep my hands from shaking.

She picked up the certificate, flipped through it casually.

Then looked up at me with a cold, unfeeling gaze that sent chills down my spine.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but this certificate is fraudulent,” she said flatly, as if she were announcing the weather.

Those words hit me like a bucket of ice water, freezing me to the core.

I leaned forward, my voice trembling but insistent: “That’s impossible! We’ve been married for 8 years. We have a daughter, a joint bank account, a shared house—everything that a real couple has. How can this be fake?”

The clerk’s expression didn’t soften.

But there was a flicker of pity in her eyes as she spoke, each word cutting deeper than a knife: “Ma’am, I don’t know what kind of arrangement you have with Mr. Hawthorne, but a legal marriage is not part of it.”

Don’t mistake sharing a man’s bed for being his wife.

You’re not his spouse, and this certificate is nothing but a piece of worthless paper.

The unspoken word “mistress” hung in the air.

I could feel the eyes of everyone in the waiting room staring at me, their whispers like needles pricking my skin.

My cheeks burned with humiliation. My fists clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms, drawing blood.

I wanted to scream, to defend him, to tell everyone that Sebastian was not the kind of man who would lie to me like this.

But as I stared at the certificate in my hand—the edges worn thin from years of being tucked in my wallet, the ink faded where his name was printed—I remembered the day he gave it to me.

He had been cold, almost distant.

Shoving it into my hand with a warning: “Don’t try to use this marriage certificate to get any benefits from me.”

Back then, I had been naive, grateful even.

I thought he was just being cautious, that he had been hurt before and needed time to trust.

Now, I realized it had all been a lie—from the moment he handed me that piece of paper, he had been deceiving me.

Sophie tugged at my clothes, her small voice quiet and worried: “Mommy, are we okay?”

I forced a smile, brushing her hair back from her face.

But my heart was breaking.

I tucked the fake certificate into the waterproof pocket of my handbag, my movements calm and steady, even as my mind was in chaos.

I dropped Sophie off with our nanny, no longer able to hide my distress.

Then booked the first flight to where Sebastian was.

I didn’t care how far it was, how tired I would be.

I needed to see him, to look him in the eyes, and make him tell me the truth.

Did he ever love me? Was our whole life together just a lie?

The doubt gnawed at me, but I clung to the last bit of hope that this was all a mistake.