I was sick of my family’s endless questions about my love life, so I came up with the craziest idea I’d ever had—one that could either save my sanity or blow up in my face. I was going to bring a fake fiancé to our holiday dinner. And not just anyone—a homeless man I’d just met.
It started that Friday afternoon. I sat in my car near the park entrance, hands gripping the steering wheel, dreading the upcoming weekend with my family. Every holiday visit was the same: my mom’s probing looks, my dad’s hopeful smiles, and the same old questions that made my stomach twist.
“When are you getting married? Have you met someone yet?”
It was like a broken record, and I couldn’t take another round of it.
That’s when I saw him.
On a bench under a bare tree sat a man in a worn-out coat. His shoulders slumped, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as if he were holding himself together. His face was lined, his beard rough, but there was something striking about him—sad eyes that told a hundred stories and the kind of rugged handsomeness you couldn’t fake.
And then it hit me.
“Could he be my fiancé for the weekend?” I whispered to myself.
It was absolutely insane. But desperate times, right?
I got out of my car, my boots crunching on the gravel, and walked toward him. He looked up as I approached, his expression wary.
“Hey,” I said, my voice sounding braver than I felt. “I know this is going to sound really strange, but… would you pretend to be my fiancé? Just for the weekend. I can offer you a warm place to stay, new clothes, and good food.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. He just studied me with this unreadable look, as if weighing my words. Then, to my surprise, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said simply.
I blinked. “Really?”
“Yes,” he replied, calm and almost too quick.
His easy agreement made me nervous, but I pushed the feeling aside. “Great. Let’s get you ready.”
Back at my apartment, I handed him some clothes that once belonged to my ex. They’d just been gathering dust in my closet, and I couldn’t think of a better use for them.
“Here, these should fit,” I said, handing him a shirt and jeans. “The bathroom’s over there if you want to shower. I’ll make dinner.”
“Well, thanks,” he said with a small smile. “A shower sounds amazing.”
While he was in the bathroom, I chopped vegetables and tried not to panic. You don’t even know his name, Mia. What are you doing?
When he stepped out, his hair damp and a towel around his shoulders, I almost didn’t recognize him. He looked younger, sharper—like someone who’d just stepped out of a different life.
“That’s the best shower I’ve had in years,” he joked.
“Glad to hear it,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I hope dinner’s just as good.”
We sat at the table, the smell of roast chicken filling the air.
“I’m Christopher, by the way,” he said after a few bites.
“Mia,” I replied.
“This is perfect,” he said, his voice low. “Haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time.”
We talked as we ate. He liked old western movies. His favorite book was The Old Man and the Sea.
“Really? Hemingway?” I teased. “I thought you’d go for something darker.”
He chuckled. “Sometimes, simple stories hit the hardest.”
By the time we finished, the awkwardness had melted away. Later, when I went to get a glass of water before bed, I noticed the dishes washed and neatly stacked.
“Did you… do the dishes?” I asked, peeking into the kitchen.
“Seemed like the least I could do,” he said.
Something about his quiet kindness stuck with me.
The next day was makeover day. At the salon, his messy hair was trimmed into something neat and stylish.
“This feels weird,” he muttered.
“Good weird or bad weird?” I teased.
“Definitely good,” he said with a smirk.
By the time we finished shopping for clothes, he looked like he could walk into any business meeting and own the room.
The holiday dinner started like a dream. My parents seemed thrilled. Mom’s eyes sparkled with pride as if I’d finally met her expectations. Christopher played his role perfectly—polite, attentive, even charming.
Then came the moment everything shifted.
“Christopher, right?” Mom asked. “You look so familiar. Have I seen you before? Maybe on TV?” She laughed lightly.
“No, I don’t think so,” Christopher said. “Maybe I just have one of those faces.”
She kept studying him. “So, what did you do before you met Mia? Business?”
He hesitated, eyes locking on hers for a second too long. “Yes. But everything changed about five years ago. There was… an accident. A car accident.”
Mom froze. Her knuckles whitened on the tablecloth. “A car accident?” she repeated, her voice sharp. “That’s… unfortunate.”
Dad glanced between them. “Olivia, are you okay?”
She ignored him, her tone icy. “Not everyone walks away from accidents unscathed, do they?”
Christopher didn’t flinch. He calmly set down his glass. “Excuse me. I’ll step outside.”
I turned to my mother. “What was that? He didn’t do anything wrong!”
She leaned in, her voice low. “Five years ago, I was in a car accident. The man I hit… was Christopher.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“He was under the influence that night,” she said coldly. “No one saw what happened, so I didn’t take him to court. But Mia, you can’t trust him. He’s dangerous.”
Outside, Christopher stood by the fence, the winter air curling around him.
“Yes,” he admitted when I asked. “I was in that accident. But I wasn’t drunk. I was on sedatives for anxiety—my wife had just died. I was driving carefully.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a simple ring. “This was hers. You’re the first woman I’ve wanted to give it to since she passed. Thank you for dinner, Mia. It was… more than I deserved.”
Then he walked away.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About his words. About the sadness in his eyes.
A week later, I placed an ad in the local paper:
“Christopher Hartman—if you see this, please meet me at the restaurant where we last had dinner. I’m there every evening. –Mia”
The next night, I was about to give up when the door opened. Christopher walked in, scanning the room until his eyes found mine.
“I saw your ad,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me.
I told him the truth. “I know about the accident. My mother admitted she was speeding that night. And… she took your money.”
“I never wanted to blame anyone,” he said quietly. “After my wife died, nothing mattered.”
“My mom wants to make it right,” I said. “She’s returning what she took.”
We talked for hours. No pretending this time. Just honesty. And somewhere in the middle of that conversation, I realized the truth: I wasn’t faking anymore. I was in love with Christopher.
And the best part? He felt the same.