Represent.
The word sounded fake the moment it left his mouth.
Like putting silk curtains over a cracked wall.
He walked over, kissed my forehead too quickly, and grabbed his keys before I could question him again.
The second the front door shut behind him, something buzzed in our bedroom.
Not my phone.
His old phone.
The one he claimed had been broken for months.
It was hidden beneath a magazine on the nightstand.
The screen lit up again.
No contact name.
Only a number.
“My love, please don’t be late. The priest already asked about you. I’m so nervous. Your son won’t stop crying.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
My love.
Your son.
The words blurred together while my hands started shaking uncontrollably.
