Over the past few months, whenever I called Daniel, the calls went unanswered.
And when they weren’t, she was the one picking up, relaying excuses on his behalf:
“Mr. Carter just stepped into the shower and isn’t out yet… Mr. Carter just fell asleep, maybe you can call again in the morning…”
Those boundary-crossing words slipped off her tongue as if they were perfectly natural.
Even now, I still marveled at how thick-skinned some people could be.
And just like this moment, when she saw me, she immediately jumped up, feigning innocence:
“Emily, don’t misunderstand. Daniel was drunk and didn’t know who he was with—he only clung to me, so I had no choice but to bring him back.”
But my eyes were locked on Daniel’s hand, gripping hers tightly.
Her hands were soft and delicate. Mine—those of the official Mrs. Carter—were calloused from years of toil.
Like my marriage, my hands had become unrecognizable.
When I stayed silent, she pressed on, emboldened:
“Honestly, Emily, you’re the one at fault. Ethan’s health isn’t good, and as his mother you should be more attentive. Daniel’s always traveling, and yet you keep calling nonstop. Luckily, I stopped the calls—otherwise, you’d have woken him up.”
At some point Ethan had woken up and ran straight over, yelling at her:
“You bad woman! Don’t take Dad away and make Mom sad!”
I instinctively reached for him, but I was a step too late.
The next second, Ethan was shoved hard to the ground. He fell sideways, a massive lump already swelling on his head.
Before Ethan could even cry, Sophia burst into tears first.
As I rushed to scoop up my son, a stinging slap landed across my face.
“You can’t even raise a child properly, Emily. What good are you for anything?”
I froze. In six years of marriage, this was the first time Daniel had ever hit me.
When Sophia taunted me, he stayed asleep.
When Ethan was shoved to the ground, he stayed asleep.
But the moment Sophia faked tears, he sobered right up.
And his first words upon waking were to condemn me.
Ethan was so stunned he forgot his own pain:
“Dad, how could you hit Mom?”
Daniel brushed it off, scolding instead:
“Look at Sophia’s leg! Do you see what happened to her?”
Following his gaze, I saw the red mark on Sophia’s thigh—bright and swollen. Yet I knew Ethan hadn’t even touched her skirt.
How could a five-year-old possibly cause such an injury?
It was blatant framing.
Ethan sniffled, trying to defend himself, but Daniel only caressed Sophia’s leg with concern.
I couldn’t bear Ethan’s hurt:
“He’s only five years old. How could he lie?”
Daniel didn’t even lift his eyelids:
“Like mother, like son. You lie constantly—of course he learned it from you.”
Speechless with rage, I held Ethan up to him:
“Daniel, open your eyes and look! Your son’s injured, and you still refuse to tell right from wrong?”
He blinked, but his tone stayed firm:
“Who knows if he didn’t fall on purpose just to frame Sophia?”
“That’s right,” Sophia added softly, her voice fragile,
“Emily, I know you dislike me, but you shouldn’t say such things in front of a child. If it’s my fault, I’ll admit it. But you can’t make accusations without proof.”
I laughed coldly and pointed to the wall.
“Who says I don’t have proof?”
There, a small camera blinked.
