That face. For the past eight years, it had greeted me with a smile every morning when I woke up. He cooked dinner when he got home from work. Whenever we argued, he was always the first to back down and apologize.
I'd always believed I was an incredibly lucky woman.
Until six hours ago, when I pushed through agony to deliver a baby.
And then, in another delivery room on the same floor, I saw a second infant who looked exactly like my son.
"Rodney, where did you just go?"
His hand paused over the soup.
"Downstairs to the pharmacy to pick up your postpartum medication. Checked on the baby while I was at it."
While I was at it.
I pressed my lips together until they went white.
That night, he sat beside my bed for a long time.
Every hour, he got up to help me turn over, recorded my temperature, then changed the maternity pad.
At 3:17 a.m., he thought I was asleep.
His footsteps were soft, but I counted them. Three rooms to the left.
A door opened.
Then closed again.
Early the next morning, Rodney went out to handle my discharge paperwork.
I waited until his footsteps faded at the end of the hallway, then got out of bed.
His jacket was draped over the back of the chair.
Inside the inner pocket was a black phone. The one he normally used was white.
I'd always known he had two phones.
He said the second one was a backup for work. Too many clients, didn't want to miss urgent calls.
I believed that for eight years.
My fingers typed in the passcode.
Every password he had was my birthday: 0714.
This phone was no different.
The moment the screen unlocked, a messaging app popped open.
A pinned conversation. The profile picture was a pink cartoon dinosaur.
Contact name: Ella.
The latest message, sent at 3:21 a.m.:
What took you so long? The baby just woke up and I can't handle everything by myself.
His reply: Be good, babe. I couldn't get away from Vanessa's side. I'll come earlier next time.
She sent back a pouting emoji.
Then: So when are you going to tell her? You promised me.
He never replied to that one.
I scrolled up.
One month earlier:
Ella: You sent me another bouquet of baby's breath today. What if your wife sees? ~
Rodney: I'll just say it was for a client.
Ella: Hahaha you liar.
Three months earlier:
Ella: Babe, I'm craving BBQ. Pick me up after work? ~
Rodney: I'll tell Vanessa I'm working late. I'll be at your place by seven.
Six months earlier:
Rodney: Ella, I can't leave Vanessa. I owe her too much. But the thought of you being kept in the shadows forever, like some dirty secret... I can't stand it.
Ella: Then get a divorce.
Rodney: I can't do that.
Ella: Then stop saying things like that. So dramatic. I don't care about a title anyway. Having you is enough.
Below that was a voice message.
I tapped the first one.
Rodney's voice came through the speaker, so tender it felt like a blade twisting between my ribs.
"Ella, Vanessa's on a business trip today. I'm coming over to your place. When you get home, we'll cook dinner together."
I set the phone down. My hands shook for a while before they finally stilled.
Then I opened Ella's Instagram.
Starting from yesterday's post about her sugar daddy, I scrolled backward.
One post at a time.
Two years ago:
"Mr. Gilbert bought me a necklace~ Guess how much? Starting at a hundred grand~ Believe it or don't~"
I'd commented underneath: Ella, you could dream up an expensive necklace in your sleep. Wake up, girl.
A year and a half ago:
"Mr. Gilbert says he's buying me an apartment so I don't have to rent anymore~ Let me just brag in advance and take a bow~"
