Every morning, I take my husband and our five-year-old son to the train station. That day, as we were walking home, my son squeezed my hand. “Mom, we can’t go home today.” “Why?”

One second.

Of.

The mask wavered

—Of course I went.

—I spoke with their receptionist.

The silence that followed was heavy, dense, charged with inevitability.

"Are you spying on me now?" he tried to deflect the question.

-Who is she?

The question fell like a stone into a calm lake.

Daniel stiffened

—I don't know what you're talking about.

—The woman who sleeps in our bed when I take our son to kindergarten.

Her face paled.

There it was.

The truth.

She didn't need any more proof

—Ethan told me —I added.

That's what broke him.