Chapter 3: The Phone He Didn't Want Me to Touch
I went upstairs.
I fed her.
I sat in the rocking chair in the dark with my daughter against my chest and I did not cry.
I made a decision instead.
When I came back downstairs forty minutes later, my husband was in the kitchen.
The laundry room door was closed.
He had made tea — mine, the way I liked it — and set it on the counter without being asked.
"We should talk," he said.
"Yes." I sat down.
"We should."
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down slowly, like a man choosing his words before he even opened his mouth.
"I know how that looked."
"Tell me how it actually was."
He wrapped both hands around his mug.
"It's a colleague.
We worked on a project together last quarter.
Things got — complicated.
But I ended it.
Months ago."
"Before or after the baby was born?"
He didn't answer fast enough.
"Daniel."
"Before," he said.
"A few weeks before."
I looked at him.
His eyes didn't move from the table.
"Your mother said you told her it was over."
His jaw tightened.
"She knew?"
"She was the one who said it.
To you.
In this house.
While I was upstairs with our newborn." I kept my voice level.
"So yes.
She knew."
He pushed back from the table and stood up.
"I didn't want her involved.
She found out on her own and she — she confronted me.
I told her it was done."
"And was it?"
"Yes."
"Then who were you talking to tonight?"
He turned toward the window.
"She called me.
I didn't call her."
"And you answered."
"I was going to tell her not to call again."
"With sweetheart and same time tomorrow."
He turned back.
His face had changed — less guilty now, more careful.
"You misheard the context."
I stood up.
"I want to see your phone."
"That's not—"
"It's a yes or no.
Can I see your phone?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said, "I'll show you the call log.
That's it."
"Why only the call log?"
"Because the rest of it is private.
Work messages.
Client information."
"I'm not asking about work messages."
"I'm not going to let you go through my entire phone because you're upset."
I picked up my tea.
Set it back down without drinking.
"You grabbed my wrist tonight," I said.
"In our laundry room.
To stop me from picking up your phone."
He opened his mouth.
"That's the part I keep coming back to," I said.
"Not the call.
The grab."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing in the room.
He set his phone on the table between us.
Screen up.
"Call log.
That's what I'm offering."
I looked at the phone.
I looked at him.
Then I walked upstairs without touching it.
I lay down next to my daughter in the dark and I thought about his mother's voice.
The way she'd said *I'm done covering for you.* Not *I don't want to cover for you.* Done.
Past tense.
Like she'd been doing it for a while and had finally run out of patience.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A text.
From a number I didn't recognize.
*You need to know the truth about your husband.
I'm sorry I waited this long.*
I stared at the screen.
May you like
Then I looked at the name the sender had typed below the message.
*— Renee*
