Leo had followed, one hand curled around the banister.
“Mommy,” he said in the overly loud whisper five-year-olds believed was quiet. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“Leo, honey, please go back downstairs.”
“But there’s a surprise inside.” He climbed the final two steps. “Daddy has the key. He keeps it in his work bag. He said only him and the lady can open it ’cause the surprise isn’t done.”
I shut my eyes.
Every clue lined up neatly and formed a picture I had already finished creating.
A locked room.
A hidden key.
A woman visiting only when I was gone.
A child instructed to keep quiet.
A husband who would not answer his phone.
I lowered myself onto the top step.
Leo sat beside me and rested his warm head against my arm.
“Are you mad, Mommy?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Are you mad at Daddy?”
I did not respond.
Downstairs, I sat on the bottom step and silently rehearsed sentences I had never imagined saying.
I want a separation.
I think you should stay somewhere else tonight.
Please do not lie to me. Not today. Not this week.
Ten years.
Our anniversary was Saturday.
I had bought him a watch and had his name engraved on the back.
Leo wandered in carrying his stuffed rabbit and climbed into my lap without saying anything.
That was what finally broke me.
More than the locked room.
More than the mysterious woman in the green dress.
He knew something was wrong and was trying to repair it with a stuffed rabbit.
Then my phone vibrated against my leg.
For a moment, I almost ignored it.
When I finally looked, my hand turned cold.
Mark had sent me a photograph.
It showed the guest bedroom from the doorway.
Half of one wall was covered in unfinished brushstrokes—soft blues, warm browns, and the beginnings of a woman’s face.
A face with kind eyes I would have recognized anywhere.
My mother’s eyes.
Beneath the photo were four lines.
“I took this yesterday.”
“I wasn’t ready to show you yet.”
“Please go upstairs.”
“I love you.”
NEXT PAGE
