When my dad died at 45, my stepmom of 12 years didn’t shed a tear and left with her son the next day. I hated her for it. Fifteen years later, I learned the truth: she’d loved my dad deeply but couldn’t bear to stay in that house without him. She had even left me part of her inheritance, because she always thought of me as her child too.

A coworker of mine went through a nightmare when an anonymous woman called his wife, claiming she was having an affair with him. His wife nearly divorced him, and he slept in the garage for two months. Later, the same woman called back, admitting she had lied and begged his wife to tell “Steve” not to contact her again. His name wasn’t Steve — it was John.

I once thought I’d found the perfect apartment — cheap, close to work, and quiet. The day before I moved in, the landlord gave it to someone else. I was furious and embarrassed as I unpacked my boxes. A week later, the entire building burned down. Nobody died, but everything was destroyed. Losing that apartment may have saved my life.

My brother Steve’s fiancée, Samantha, started showing all the classic signs of cheating. One weekend, she claimed she had a work event 250 miles away. Suspicious, Steve called her motel at 1 a.m. A man answered — it was our other brother.