For months, my husband disappeared three nights a week, claiming he worked late. Then my little girl drew a picture with crayons called “Daddy’s Other House,” and suddenly my whole marriage seemed like a lie.
For almost a year, my husband, Daniel, had worked nights. Or at least, that’s what he called them.
“Another one?” I asked him one Thursday evening, as I watched him button his dark work jacket near the front door.
Daniel didn’t look at me immediately. He bent over, pretending to lace up his boots, even though I knew he’d already laced them twice.
“Yes,” he said softly. “They need help again.”
I was in the kitchen with a damp dishcloth twisted between my fingers. Behind me, our six-year-old daughter, Lily, sat at the table coloring, her tongue hanging out, intent.
“You work three, sometimes four nights a week,” I told him. “You’re exhausted.”
Finally, he looked up, and for a moment, a look of guilt flashed across his face so quickly I almost didn’t notice it.
“We need money, Claire.”
That silenced me.
