A woman’s young son accidentally revealed that a mysterious woman had been visiting their upstairs room while she was at work. Certain her husband was hiding an af:fair, she began searching for the truth. What she discovered was nothing like she expected.
The house was silent as I stood at the foot of our bed, folding a stack of Leo’s tiny T-shirts. On the dresser, my mother’s silk scarf rested in a loose coil, still carrying the faint scent of her jasmine perfume three months after we buried her.
Before I could stop myself, I lifted it to my face and breathed in.
“Mommy, are you crying again?”
Leo stood in the doorway wearing mismatched socks, one blue and one striped, holding a juice box like a prize.
“No, baby. Just smelling Grandma.”
“Grandma smells like flowers.”
“She does.”
He padded into the room and climbed onto the bed. That was when I noticed it again—a smear of silver paint along the side of his thumb, dried and peeling, with another streak crusted near his elbow that I was certain had not been there when I bathed him the night before.
“Leo, what is this?”
“Paint.”
“I can see it’s paint. From where?”
“Art class,” Mark called from the hallway.
He appeared behind Leo with a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
“The teacher’s been doing a whole galaxy unit this week. Stars, planets, the works.”
Then he gave me that smile.
Small and private, with the corners of his mouth tucked inward as though he were keeping something from slipping out.
“It looks stubborn. Doesn’t it wash off?”
“You know how he is in the tub. Splashes everywhere except on himself.”
“I did!” Leo shouted before bouncing off the bed and racing downstairs.
Mark leaned over and kissed my forehead, quick and warm.
“You look tired, Ket.”
“I’m fine.”
“Our anniversary is in three days. Ten years. Are we doing something or are you going to keep pretending you forgot?”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.”
He checked his phone again, wearing that same soft smile, then slipped it into his back pocket before I could glimpse the screen.
“I have to run out for an hour,” he said. “Errand.”
“On a Wednesday morning? Don’t you have work?”
“Boring one. Promise.”
I watched him leave and told myself I was being absurd.
Grief did strange things to people. My mother used to say suspicion was simply love with nowhere to land, and lately my love seemed to have nowhere at all.
That evening, I carried a stack of clean towels toward the guest room, but the door would not open.
“Mark?” I called. “Why is the guest room locked?”
“Is it?” he called back from downstairs. “Must’ve stuck. I’ll take a look in a minute.”
“Do you have the key?”
“Somewhere,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
I kept my hand on the doorknob for a long moment.
Then I walked away, because that was what a sensible wife did.
That was what a woman who trusted her husband was supposed to do.
By the following afternoon, I had nearly convinced myself that nothing was wrong.
“Milk, apples, bread, and something for dinner,” I told Leo while buckling him into the grocery cart. “Help Mommy remember.”
