At the mall, a woman screamed at me, accusing me of being her husband’s mistress. She even showed me a photo—someone who looked exactly like me. The resemblance was uncanny, but I knew the truth.
I calmly proved my alibi with my work ID, schedule, and timestamped photos, showing I had been hundreds of miles away during the times in question. Her fury dissolved into a mix of relief and grief—she realized she had been gaslit by her husband for months.
By existing, I had almost become someone else’s nightmare—but instead, I helped her see the truth.
