For a second I just stared at the screen, hoping I’d misread it. The kitchen smelled of butter and garlic. My husband, Caleb, hummed lightly as he cooked, completely unaware that my world had just cracked.
Mariah wasn’t someone who dramatized things. If she wrote something heavy, it meant it was already crushing her.
My fingers shook as I typed: What are you talking about? Are you okay?
Three dots appeared… vanished… returned.
Then she sent the message that hollowed my stomach:
“It’s his. I tried. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
I looked at Caleb, who was sprinkling salt like nothing in the world was wrong. Then another message appeared:
He said you’ll understand.
My pulse roared in my ears.
I walked to the bathroom, shut the door, and reread everything until the meaning was undeniable.
Mariah was pregnant. She believed Caleb was the father. And “he said you’ll understand” meant Caleb had told her something—something deliberate.
I opened our message thread, my hands trembling. I typed—pretending to be him.
Come over. We should talk. My wife isn’t home today.
I hit send before I could think.
Her answer came instantly: Okay. I’m on my way.