Three weeks. And every day, according to my five-year-old, the hide-and-seek game was still happening.
I sat up in the dark and made a decision: I wasn’t waiting three weeks for anything.
I went through the motions the next morning. Watched my husband back out of the driveway, coffee in hand, humming softly. Dropped Mason at school. Drove to the office. Sat at my desk.
At noon, I packed my bag, told my boss I had a fever, and headed to my car.
On the drive home, I called my husband. He picked up on the third ring, his voice slightly distracted. And behind it—music, and a woman laughing.
“Hey! Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m just not feeling well. Are you busy?” I asked, focusing more on the background than his words.
“Kind of. You need anything?”
“No. Sorry to bother you.”
I hung up and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. My mind went straight to the worst possible place. I knew I shouldn’t let it. I went there anyway.
