Saying the words out loud made me sick.
“I think my wife has been lying to me for months.”
The attorney did not rush me. She only slid a folder across the desk and said, “You do not have to file today. Sometimes people just need to understand their options.”
I left with the folder under my arm, feeling like I was carrying a death certificate for a marriage that was still breathing.
Renee kept trying.
She left lasagna on Mason’s porch.
She sent photos of Eli holding a crayon sign that said, Come home, Daddy.
Then she tucked a handwritten letter under my windshield wiper.
It began with three words.
Please trust me.
I could not.
Not because I did not want answers.
Because I did not know how much another lie would cost me.
Three evenings later, Daniel knocked on Mason’s door.
“I know you’re angry,” he said, standing on the porch with his hands in his jacket pockets. “You have every right to be.”
“I have nothing to say to you, Daniel.”
“I figured.”
He glanced toward my truck.
“But before you make a decision you can’t undo, give me one hour tomorrow morning.”
“I heard enough that day when you were talking to my wife inside my house.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You heard half a conversation.”
He placed an envelope on the porch railing.
“The address is inside.”
The next morning, curiosity beat pride.
The address led to a quiet street near the edge of town, where a white craftsman house sat beneath two huge maple trees. Fresh mulch lined the flower beds. Blue balloons were tied to the mailbox.
Daniel stood in the driveway with several men from our crew.
Then I saw Renee on the porch.
She wore old jeans, work boots, and a faded sweatshirt stained with dry paint. For the first time in months, I really looked at her hands.
Tiny cuts marked her knuckles.
The skin around her fingertips was rough and cracked.
Not from clinic appointments.
PART 3:
From work.
Daniel handed me a thick envelope.
“Open it.”
Inside was a deed.
My name and Renee’s name were printed at the top.
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