CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2: The Hand He Dropped
I picked up the phone and walked toward the hallway.
Every step felt unreal.
My bare feet made no sound on the hardwood. The house smelled like rain, lemon polish, and the roast chicken I had spent two hours making because Daniel said his parents might stop by.
They never came.
They never came unless I invited them.
That was my job, apparently.
To host.
To smile.
To make everything look normal.
I reached the dim hallway and stopped.
Daniel stood near the back door in his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, wedding ring still on his finger.
Ethan stood in front of him wearing a dark office coat, his eyes wet, his shoulders heavy with shame.
Daniel was holding his hand.
Not casually.
Not like a friend.
Like a man holding the only honest thing left in his life.
When Daniel saw me, he let go so fast it almost looked violent.
Ethan stepped back.
Daniel’s face turned white. “Grace.”
I lifted his phone.
He looked at it, then at me, and in that one second, five years rearranged themselves in my mind.
The late nights.
The locked bathroom calls.
The way he touched my shoulder in public but turned away in bed.
The way his mother praised us for being “such a perfect couple,” while Daniel squeezed my hand under the table like he was asking me to survive the performance with him.
I had mistaken distance for stress.
I had mistaken politeness for devotion.
I had mistaken being useful for being loved.
May you like
My eyes filled with tears, but my voice came out cold.
“Five years, Daniel,” I said. “Was I your wife, or just the story you told your parents?”
