At my husband’s office party, our 4-year-old daughter suddenly pointed to a woman across the room and said, “Mommy, that’s the lady with the butterflies!” I laughed awkwardly. “What butterflies, sweetie?” She leaned in close and whispered, “The ones Daddy said live in her bed.”

When she returned to the ballroom, Claire was leaning close to Charles, whispering something that made him laugh. Adriana smiled for the cameras, pretending not to see. She gathered Nora’s coat and whispered, “Time to go home, darling.”

That night, after Nora fell asleep, Adriana sat in the darkened living room, waiting. The clock crept toward one in the morning before Charles stumbled in, reeking of scotch and celebration. He stopped short when he saw her sitting there, arms folded, eyes unblinking.

“Still awake?” he asked, uneasy.

“Yes,” she said softly. “We need to talk.”

He sighed, rubbing his neck. “Adri, not tonight. I’m exhausted.”

She stood. “Nora said something at the gala. She pointed at Claire and told me that’s the lady with the butterflies. Then she said you told her the butterflies live in Claire’s bed.”

Charles paled. “That’s ridiculous. She must have misunderstood.”

“Did she?” Adriana asked. Her voice was calm, steady. “Or did she repeat what she heard?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I made a stupid joke once. Claire bought sheets with butterflies on them, and I mentioned it over the phone. Nora must have overheard.”