Part 1My Dashcam Caught The Fake Miscarriage

I decided it was time to give her a masterclass in consequences, mostly because her sheer entitlement had finally crossed the line from annoying to pathological.

For the entire past month, she had hitched a ride in my car every single morning. At the end of the month, she sent me a Venmo for exactly fifteen dollars.

Her justification was delivered with a perfectly straight face: her morning sickness was so severe, she simply couldn’t stomach the smell of the subway crowds, and she was hoping to keep carpooling next month. In her mind, my commute passed right by her apartment complex, and taking the detour cost me "barely two minutes."

She had even whipped out her calculator to do the exact math on my gas mileage. According to her, the one-mile detour, factoring in my car’s MPG and the current price of premium unleaded, cost me about fifty cents a day. So, she figured, giving me a dollar a day meant she was overpaying. The extra fifty cents was supposed to be my tip to buy myself a coffee. A win-win, she called it.

I had stared at that $15 Venmo notification, my thumb hovering over the screen, unable to process the sheer audacity.

She wasn't done. She added that since I was driving to the office anyway, having an extra body in the passenger seat didn't burn any more gas. Then came the kicker: she offered to bump it up to two dollars a day, but only if I could swing by the drive-thru and grab her an iced oat milk latte while I waited by her curb. The latte was four dollars, but she said since I had to sit at the red light anyway, picking it up was no extra skin off my nose.

I had thrown my phone onto my nightstand, the glass clattering against the wood. Right then and there, I decided to take the highway.

The next morning, I left half an hour early and took the route from the opposite direction.

Yet, the second I stepped off the elevator and walked to my cubicle, she was there, waiting to block my path.

She demanded to know if I was aware she had been standing out in the biting wind by my apartment gate for twenty minutes. Then, with the casual flick of her wrist, she announced that her Uber XL had cost her twenty-eight dollars, and since I hadn't given her 24 hours' notice of my route change, I needed to reimburse her.

She actually shoved the Uber receipt right into my face.

...

* * *

My name is Nina. I’ve been in the Project Management department for three years. My car payment is $680 a month, my performance bonus is currently being held hostage by my manager, and the Team Lead promotion I’ve been killing myself for is still hanging in the balance.

At 9:07 AM, Chelsea’s phone screen, displaying her $28 Uber receipt, was practically grazing my nose.

"Twenty-eight," she said, tapping her manicured nail against the glass. "Venmo or Zelle, Nina?"

I unclipped my ID lanyard from my neck, dropped it onto my desk, and calmly pushed her hand away.

"You take an Uber, and you expect me to expense it?"

She brought the phone right back up. Her eyes went glassy, instantly brimming with manufactured tears. Her free hand moved to rest delicately over her flat stomach. When she spoke, her voice had dropped an octave, thin and trembling.

"I stood by your gate for twenty minutes. The wind was freezing. And you know I'm pregnant."

She sniffled, casting a wide, pathetic glance around the open-plan office. "If you had just sent a text last night, I wouldn't have stood out there freezing for nothing."

The clacking of keyboards around us slowed to a halt. Beth swiveled her chair around, still chewing on the plastic straw of her iced coffee. "What's going on?"

Chelsea held her phone a little higher, a martyr on display.

"It's nothing, really. Nina just didn't pick me up today, so I had to call a last-minute Uber." She laced the word nothing with a heavy dose of victimhood. "I'm not forcing her to pay me back or anything, but twenty-eight dollars is a lot just because someone forgot to text."

Beth gave me a look. "Nina, you didn't give her a ride today?"

I pushed my mouse aside. The metallic chill of my car keys pressed into my palm, grounding me.

"Why exactly am I obligated to give her a ride?"

Chelsea’s bottom lip jutted out. "Because you've been driving me for a month, Nina."

"That was just me trying to be polite before you wore out your welcome."

The office went dead silent. The printer in the corner jammed, spitting out a harsh, rhythmic clack-clack-clack.

Chelsea’s fragile facade cracked, revealing a flash of indignation. "Nina, that's incredibly harsh. I'm pregnant. I physically cannot handle the smell of stale sweat and cheap breakfast sandwiches on the subway. Riding with you is literally just one extra turn."

"One extra turn?" I pulled out my phone, opening the Venmo app, and held the screen up for her. "Fifteen dollars. You think fifteen dollars buys you a private chauffeur for a month?"

She took a step closer, defensive now. "I did the math on the gas! Your car gets what, twenty-five miles to the gallon? My place is a mile out of the way. That's maybe fifty cents of gas a day. I gave you a dollar. I overpaid you."

"And the coffee you demanded I buy?"

"The coffee is four dollars! If I give you five, the extra dollar is your tip for waiting. You're just sitting in the car anyway!"

I locked my phone and looked up, meeting her eyes dead on.

"Chelsea. I am not your driver."

The tears spilled over instantly. Perfect, symmetrical drops. "I knew it. I knew you hated pregnant women."

Heads popped up over the cubicle dividers like meerkats.

Beth rushed to play peacekeeper. "Come on, guys. We all work together. It wouldn't kill you to just swing by and pick her up, Nina."

I hooked my finger through my keyring and tossed the keys onto Beth’s desk. They landed with a heavy clatter.

"Great. You pick her up tomorrow. She lives ten miles in the opposite direction from you. I'll even Venmo you the fifteen bucks to cover the gas."

The straw slipped from Beth's lips. "I... I live way out in the North Suburbs."

"Then mind your own business."