That night, long after Liam had been put down in his crib, I sat with Audrey on the back patio. A light, rhythmic rain tapped a gentle cadence against the garden stones. It wasn’t a violent storm. It was just enough precipitation to make the world feel incredibly close, insulated, and private. She rested her head comfortably against my shoulder, wrapping her arms around my torso.
“Do you ever think about that specific day?” she asked quietly into the dark.
I knew precisely which day she was referencing.
“Yes,” I admitted, resting my cheek against the top of her head.
“So do I.”
I waited, letting the silence stretch. For a long while, the only sounds were the rustling of wet leaves, the distant hum of highway traffic, and the tiny, static-laced breathing noises emitting from the baby monitor resting on the table beside her chair.
Then, she spoke again. “When you first walked through the archway that afternoon… I thought, for one agonizing second, that the absolute worst thing in the universe had just happened.”
My chest seized with a familiar, suffocating guilt. “You thought I was going to believe her lies.”
She nodded against my shoulder.
I stared out into the rain-soaked yard, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. “I violently hate that you had to feel that.”
“I know,” she murmured softly, turning her face upward to meet my gaze. “That is exactly why I no longer live inside that second anymore.”
I looked down at her.
