“We were together.”
The words hit like blunt force.
Not friends. Not coworkers. Not old classmates. Together.
Your knees nearly gave out.
For one surreal, nauseating moment, all your thoughts scattered into nonsense fragments. Michael at thirteen, refusing to wear a tie to church. Michael at twenty-three, calling to say he’d gotten a promotion. Michael at thirty, introducing you to the woman who would become his wife. Michael three months ago, too distracted on the phone to talk for more than four minutes. Michael, your son, your quiet boy with your husband’s eyes and your stubborn mouth. Together.
“With you?” you whispered.
Daniel’s face folded inward. “I didn’t know who you were.”
You laughed then, a sound so cracked it barely counted as laughter at all. “That’s your defense?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You slept with me and then casually recognized my family photo in broad daylight?”
“Because the resemblance is stronger in the picture. And because I wasn’t looking for it last night. Ellie, please.”
You shook your head and pressed a hand to your mouth. Your stomach lurched. The whole room felt contaminated by coincidence so grotesque it bordered on cruelty. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw him out. You wanted to wake up and discover this was some stress-born hallucination brought on by red wine and late-blooming shame.
Instead, you said the most absurd possible thing.
“My son is married.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
The answer was there before he spoke.
“I know.”
That was when rage finally arrived.
Not dainty rage. Not trembling tears. Full-bodied, bright white rage that cut through shock like a blade. You pointed toward the bedroom door.
“Get out.”
He opened his mouth.
“Get out of my house.”
He started pulling on his jacket immediately. “You have every right to hate me.”
“I don’t have time to hate you. I’m still trying to understand whether I’m having a stroke.”
