But every time I saw them side by side, my chest tightened.
And every time I mentioned Lily or Ryan, Jack grew quiet.
Too quiet.
One afternoon, I casually said, “Ryan seems nice. Have you talked to him much?”
Jack stiffened.
“Not really,” he said.
“He moved here with just Lily?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
Jack reached for his coffee mug and looked away.
“I don’t know, Heather.”
That was when I knew something was wrong.
Not because of what he said.
Because of what he refused to say.
That night, I lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling while the darkness pressed down on me.
My mind replayed every strange moment.
The way Jack avoided Ryan.
The way he watched Lily with sadness in his eyes.
The way he changed the subject every time I asked about the neighbors.
Finally, I couldn’t keep it inside any longer.
I turned toward him.
“Jack,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer at first.
“Jack.”
“What?” he murmured.
I swallowed hard.
“Is Lily your daughter?”
The room went still.
So still I could hear the soft hum of the air conditioner.
Jack slowly turned his head toward me.
“What did you just say?”
My voice trembled, but I forced the words out.
“Is Lily your daughter?”
He sat up like I had struck him.
“Heather, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t do that,” I said, sitting up too. “Don’t act like I’m crazy.”
“I’m not acting like anything. I genuinely have no idea where this is coming from.”
“The girls look identical, Jack. Identical. And ever since Lily moved in next door, you’ve been distant and nervous and strange. Every time I bring them up, you shut down.”
His face went pale.
My throat burned.
“Did you have an affair?”
“No,” he said immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Then explain it to me.”
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