As evening fell, the unease lingered, a shadow that refused to be dispelled.
The kids were in bed, their quiet breathing a reminder of innocence untouched by my turmoil.
I found my husband in the living room, his gaze distant, lost in thought.
“We need to talk,” I said, the words heavy in the air.
He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes meeting mine.
“About the visits,” I continued, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest.
“What about them?” he asked, his expression carefully neutral.
“I don’t know where you go,” I admitted, the confession both a relief and a burden.
He sighed, a sound full of unspoken complexities.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, his voice soft, almost resigned.
