But when your heart is already afraid, even one second feels like proof.
“Sure, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a little too careful.
Emma grabbed his hand and pulled him across the yard. Lily was already standing near the swing set, waiting shyly.
“Can I go first?” Lily asked.
“Of course,” Jack said. “Then Emma gets a turn.”
He helped her onto the swing.
And I hated myself for the thought that came next.
They looked natural together.
Too natural.
Like a father and daughter.
I stood there watching, my mind racing in directions I didn’t want it to go.
That evening, after Lily had gone home and Emma had fallen asleep, the house felt too quiet.
Jack sat in the living room, pretending to watch TV. I washed the same plate twice, then wiped a clean counter that didn’t need wiping.
Neither of us said much.
But silence can be louder than shouting when two people are hiding from the same truth.
Later that night, I found myself sitting on the bedroom floor with Emma’s baby album spread across my lap.
Page after page, I studied her tiny face.
Her first smile.
Her first birthday.
Her first steps.
I looked for Jack in her features. His eyes. His jaw. His smile. Anything that could quiet the ugly suspicion growing inside me.
Instead, all I could see was Lily.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped and slammed the album shut.
Jack stood in the doorway, staring at me.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just… looking at old pictures.”
His gaze dropped to the album in my lap.
“Old pictures,” he repeated softly.
He didn’t accuse me of anything. He didn’t ask what I was really searching for.
That somehow made it worse.
Because lately, Jack had become an expert at not asking questions.
And I had become an expert at not saying what was tearing me apart.
Over the next few weeks, Emma and Lily became inseparable.
They played after school. They shared snacks. They made up songs in the backyard. They painted pictures at the kitchen table and left glitter on everything they touched.
Everyone else would have found it adorable.
I tried to.
I really did.
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