Then another message appeared.
When can I see you again without her getting suspicious?
Her.
Me.
My thumb trembled as I unlocked the phone.
Daniel and I knew each other’s passcodes. At least I had always believed that was evidence that we had nothing to hide.
What I found was not one inappropriate conversation.
It wasn’t flirting.
It wasn’t a momentary lapse in judgment.
There were weeks of messages.
Hotel reservations.
Photographs.
Plans.
Private jokes.
Things he had told her about me.
He complained that pregnancy had made me emotional.
That I was tired all the time.
That everything in our house had become about the baby.
He told her he missed feeling “wanted.”
I kept scrolling even though every new message made me feel physically sick.
At one point, I found a photograph of the nursery.
Our nursery.
The pale green walls Daniel and I had painted together.
