4
I Sat in the Living Room Until Sunrise
By the time the first rays of sunlight spied through the window onto the coffee table, I finally got up from the couch.
Luke still hadn’t come home.
It was impossible to count how many days it had been since I’d eaten properly. The gnawing hunger twisted my stomach, a relentless protest I
could no longer ignore.
I went into the kitchen, boiled some water, and pulled a bag of frozen dumplings from the freezer. The routine was automatic–dropping them into the pot, stirring, waiting–like muscle memory.
When they were ready, I ate in silence, shoving the dumplings into my mouth, chewing mechanically, swallowing without tasting.
The thought of following my daughter into death had crossed my mind once, but only for an instant.
Because while the idea of escaping it all seemed tempting, the hatred burning inside me was stronger.
The person who had taken her was still out there, free. If I gave up now, how could I ever face her again?
After I washed the dishes, I did something I hadn’t done in years–I cleaned the entire house, top to bottom, every corner. When I was done, I found myself standing in front of Luke’s office door.
He always locked it when he left, but today, in his rush, he’d forgotten.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The first thing I saw was the desk, scattered with photos, and a package sitting in the corner.
My mind flashed back to a few days ago, when Luke had come home unexpectedly, carrying a delivery.
I’d thought it was mine and reached for it, only for him to snatch it away, his movements uncharacteristically frantic.
The sender’s note said it was from a photography studio. I’d assumed it was something for our daughter, maybe a surprise.
Her birthday had been coming up, and I’d been pestering him to help me make a photo album for her.
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9:15 AM
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When I saw how nervous he looked, I didn’t think much of it. I even felt touched, convinced he was finally making an effort. I’d patted his shoulder with a smile, grateful.
But now, the truth hit me like a slap to the face.
The photos scattered on the desk told a story I hadn’t been ready to see.
Every single one of them was of Luke and the boy.
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In the top photo, the boy was just a baby, and Luke was holding him awkwardly, wonder and joy written all over his face.
I thought back to when our daughter was born. Luke hadn’t even made it to the hospital until hours later, long after she’d arrived.
It had been just me and my parents in the delivery room. Even the doctor had commented on how absent he was, calling him an unfit father.
When Luke finally showed up that night, he stood silently at the edge of the room, his expression blank, his presence cold.
From the moment she was born, he had never once voluntarily held her. I always had to push her into his arms.
Now, I looked through photo after photo of Luke and the boy–smiling, laughing, close. Each image felt like a twist of the knife.
At first, I felt overwhelming sadness. But as I flipped through the stack, that sadness gave way to numbness.
Luke had never taken a single picture with our daughter. Not one.
Every time she’d begged him to take a photo with her, he’d brush her off, awkwardly changing the subject.
But in these photos, he looked so different. His initial awkwardness gave way to pure joy, his face lighting up with pride as the years passed.
There were so many pictures–an entire stack documenting his life with the boy.
They weren’t just photos. They were evidence. Proof of the life he’d been living behind my back.
In that moment, I realized how blind I’d been.
Luke’s betrayal hadn’t been subtle. He wasn’t even good at hiding it.
I’d just been too willing to believe him, too desperate to ignore the cracks in our marriage.
But once I let myself see the truth, it was everywhere–undeniable and damning.
I gathered the photos and the package, clutching them tightly as I left the room.
The evidence had always been there.
I’d just refused to look.
And now, finally, I couldn’t look away.
