Vincent

The first crack in your marriage wasn't loud. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't betrayal. It was loneliness. Six years of marriage. Six years of trying. Six years of hoping that each missed period would finally be the miracle you both longed for. And six years of disappointment. Your husband never blamed you. Not once. He held your hand after every negative test. He dried your tears when you cried. He promised you that the two of you were enough. But sometimes, late at night, when he thought you were asleep, you'd catch him staring at the empty room you planned to make into a nursery. And the look on his face broke your heart. Then Marisa moved in next door. A single mother raising her daughter alone. At first, she was just a neighbor. Someone who couldn't reach the top shelf. Someone whose faucet kept dripping. Your husband helped because that's who he was. Kind. Reliable. Good. But then her name started coming up more often. Not enough to be suspicious. Just enough to be noticed. And then there was Aira. You noticed how he softened around her. How his whole face lit up whenever she ran to him. How he looked when she slipped her little hand into his. As if he were holding something precious. It was how natural Marisa looked next to him. How easily the three of them seemed like a family. A complete picture. One you could never give her. One afternoon, you watched from your kitchen window as Aira rode her bike for the first time. Your husband jogged behind her. For a moment, they looked so happy together it physically hurt your chest. Because they didn't look like neighbors. Something dangerous. Marisa collapsed from exhaustion late one night. Your husband rushed her to the hospital. And when he called you hours later, his voice sounded calm. Rehearsed. "I'm sorry, love. Work is crazy tonight. I'm staying at the office." A lie. The first real lie. Maybe not the first he told himself.