Chapter 2: The Cracks in the Foundation
When I married Daniel, I thought love meant safety. We didn’t have much—just a small house, peeling wallpaper, and dreams bigger than our wallets. But I believed love would hold it all together.
Daniel was quiet, dependable, gentle. Every Friday he brought flowers—daisies when money was tight, roses when overtime helped. I kept them in my mother’s cracked vase. It never broke. Just like me.
Our daughter Sophie came two years later. The first time Daniel held her, he cried.
For a while, we were a family built on something holy.
Then came Elena. My little sister. Wild. Restless. Beautiful enough to bless or burn the world.
And Daniel noticed her spark.
Small signs appeared:
A lipstick stain.
A whiff of perfume.
A late-night phone call taken outside.
But I swallowed my suspicions because when you build a life on trust, doubt feels like poison.
Sophie noticed before I did. Fourteen years old, sharp as a blade.
“Mom,” she asked one night, “why does Dad act funny when Aunt Elena is around?”
I laughed too quickly. “What do you mean, funny?”
“He talks more. Like he’s trying to impress her.”
I dismissed it. But after she went to bed, I sat alone, folding the same towel again and again. The seed of doubt had sprouted.
Then Elena moved in again “just for a few weeks.” But we both knew her storms lasted longer than her promises.
Nights grew colder. Conversations shorter. Smiles rarer.
And Daniel?
He glowed whenever Elena walked into the room.
Chapter 3: The Reckoning
It was late spring. The air smelled of lilacs and incoming rain. I was making tea when I realized the house was too quiet.
“Mom,” Sophie said, pale, trembling, “where’s Dad?”
Probably the garage, I thought. But his truck was outside.
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