Noah thought about it with complete innocence.
“Yeah. Daddy always says not to tell you because it’s a surprise.”
A surprise.
The word struck me like ice water.
For months, Eric had been changing in ways he wanted me to think were too small to matter. More late nights. More locked screens. More last-minute “business dinners.” His job had not changed. His title had not changed. But somehow he suddenly needed to travel more, stay out later, guard his phone like it contained state secrets, and disappear for long stretches with explanations that sounded practiced even when he delivered them casually.
I had thought affair.
I had thought gambling, maybe. Debt. Some kind of personal mess.
I had not thought this.
I looked toward the floor, then reached down and lifted the bed skirt.
Nothing.
Hardwood. Dust. A single red crayon. No person. No sign that anyone had ever hidden there.
For a second I almost felt foolish. Maybe he had dreamed it. Maybe he had seen Melissa once and turned it into a game. Maybe children collapsed time in strange ways and told stories that made perfect sense only inside their own heads.
Then I looked back at my son.
He wasn’t making up a story for attention. There was no excitement in his face, no playful grin, no effort to scare me. He looked worried I might be upset.
“Did I do something bad?” he asked softly.
I put both hands on his cheeks.
