When he finally crawled into bed next to me, the mattress sagged under his weight.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
“Daniel…” My throat tightened. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
He remained still.
“What do you mean?”
I slowly turned to him. “Lily showed me a drawing today.”
For the first time in our marriage, I saw panic flash across his face.
“She’s six, Claire.”
“She said you need to take her somewhere. To a blue house.”
He ran his hands over his face. “Children imagine so many things.”
“She said you told her not to tell me because it would make me cry.”
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
“Are you cheating on me?” I whispered.
His jaw instantly tensed. “No.”
But he looked away as he said it. It hurt me more than if he’d shouted it. The next two days were unbearable. Every little thing suddenly seemed suspicious: the late-night texts, the tiredness, the distance between us.
Then Tuesday night came.
Daniel kissed Lily goodnight while I stood in the hallway pretending to fold laundry.
“I love you, honey,” he murmured.
Lily smiled sleepily. “Are you going to the blue house tonight?”
Daniele froze.
Just for a second, but I saw it.
I felt a strong sinking feeling in my stomach, so much so that it physically hurt.
“It’s time for bed,” he said quickly, tucking her in.
A few minutes later, he grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter.
“I’m going to work.”
I stared at him. “Don’t lie to me anymore.”
A flash of pain crossed his face.
“Claire—”
