Because he was right. The bills were piling up on the counter like accusations, the mortgage was late, and Lily needed new shoes. I’d started watering down my soup and pretending I wasn’t hungry.
So, when Daniel came home before dawn, smelling of gas station coffee, cold air, and something vaguely unfamiliar, I kissed his tired cheek and told myself I was lucky to have a husband willing to sacrifice himself for us.
Then came the drawing.
It was a rainy Saturday afternoon, the kind that makes the windows tear and turns the whole house gray. I was helping Lily clean her room when I found it half-hidden under the bed.
A crayon drawing of a little blue house, yellow flowers on the porch, and a red door. In front of it stood a tall man with brown hair, holding the hand of a little girl in a purple dress.
My throat tightened.
“Lily,” I said, trying to keep my voice gentle. “Honey… what is this?”
She looked up from her pile of stuffed animals and smiled.
“Oh. That’s Daddy’s other house.”
The room tilted.
I laughed nervously. “Daddy what?”
She crawled toward me, completely innocent, her curls bouncing around her face. Then she lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret.
“Daddy takes me there sometimes.”
My fingers went cold as I touched the paper.
“When?” I whispered.
“When you think I’m at Grandma’s,” she said, pointing proudly to the blue house, “there are flowers outside. And snacks. And a little boy with sad eyes.”
I could barely breathe.
“Lily… why didn’t you tell me?”
Her smile faded.
“Daddy said not to do that,” she whispered. “Because it would make you cry.”
I slept very little that night.
Daniel returned home shortly after five in the morning, moving silently in the kitchen as the rain pattered softly against the windows. I lay awake, staring into the darkness, Lily’s words ringing incessantly in my head.
Daddy’s other house.
