My husband Andrew hated using the guest bathroom near the den because he constantly complained about the water pressure. In fifteen years of marriage, he always showered upstairs unless something was broken.
I slowly unpacked strawberries while listening harder.
Water.
Movement.
Then laughter.
A woman’s laughter.
Not television noise.
Not a podcast.
Not social media playing through a phone speaker.
This sound carried intimacy beneath it — soft, breathless, comfortable in the unmistakable way people sound when they believe nobody else can hear them.
My hand froze around the carton of eggs.
I recognized the laugh instantly.
Megan Carter.
The woman who lived four houses away. The same woman who brought lemon bars to neighborhood block parties and posted carefully curated photos of her hydrangeas every spring. The same woman who hugged me tightly at Christmas while complimenting my sweater.
