When I left the hospital, I felt like a ghost stumbling through bright daylight. Carson’s face followed me as if I’d left a smear on his conscience—then vanished when Alice needed him. At home, the house felt hollowed out. The wedding photograph we once hung with pride was a stain on the wall. I pulled it down and threw it in the garbage like an offering to what we had been.
I moved slowly, packing the life that had belonged to two into black plastic bags. Each item I shoved in felt like removing a part of myself. Every sweater, every small keepsake, every pair of shoes—evidence of a shared life—became evidence of deceit. I stuffed the last of the items into the bag and slung it over my shoulder. The front door was a threshold; on the other side of it was the rest of my life.
As I reached the stairs, the door slammed open and Carson walked in, cradling Alice like an injured bird. Guilt flickered across his face when he saw me, and then he assumed a haughty composure. “She’s unwell—because of you,” he said, as if that covered anything.
“Unwell?” My voice was cold. “Then why bring her here? Why our house? Do you think this is a recovery center for your mistress?”
“Watch your words,” he snapped. “I’m fixing things. Whether you like it or not, Alice will stay here.”
Alice began to stroke her belly, sweet innocence on display. “There’s nothing between Carson and me,” she said in mock humility. “I’m only staying because of the pup.”