Chapter 2: What He's Like When They Get Home
I looked straight at Ethan and said, "That's enough."
The table went still.
He turned to me slowly, that smirk still on his face.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I said.
"She looks beautiful.
And you're embarrassing yourself."
My daughter grabbed my arm under the table.
A quiet warning.
But I was already too far in.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and laughed — not the nervous kind.
The kind that means he wasn't worried at all.
"With all due respect," he said, "this is between me and my wife."
"Then talk to her like she's your wife."
The room didn't breathe.
My daughter stood up.
I thought she was going to leave.
Instead, she said something I never expected.
"Mom.
Please.
Don't."
Not to Ethan.
To me.
She was protecting him.
And the look on her face wasn't embarrassment.
It was fear.
That's when I noticed her hands.
She was gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Ethan glanced at her once.
Just once.
And she sat back down without another word.
My husband reached over and quietly covered my hand with his.
Later that night, after everyone had gone, my daughter came to find me in the kitchen.
She closed the door behind her.
"Mom," she whispered.
"You don't know what he's like when we get home."
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What has Ethan been doing behind closed doors?
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The full truth is more painful than anyone at that table knew.
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