A routine that my son observed in silence.
I did not confront Daniel that evening.
I prepared dinner.
I listened to his completely fabricated story about the endless meetings.
I watched him play with Ethan, while helping him brush his teeth.
I wondered how he could kiss our son with the same mouth he had used to kiss another woman a few hours earlier.
When Ethan fell asleep, I sat across from Daniel in the kitchen.
"How was your day in town?" I asked calmly.
"Exhausting," he replied without looking at me. "The traffic was hellish."
Liar.
For full cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and—Are you sure you went there?
He looked up.
-What does that mean?
I stared at him.
—You didn't go to the office today.
One second.
From there.
The mask hesitated.
—Of course I went.
—I spoke with your receptionist.
The silence that followed was heavy, dense, laden with inevitability.
"Are you spying on me now?" he tried to change the subject.
—Who is she?
The question fell like a stone into a still lake.
