For three months, my husband claimed he spent weekends camping with our son. Then Toby revealed their secret rule — and I realized Greg had been lying to me every single time.
The kitchen clock read 2:14 a.m., and the only light in the house came from the small lamp above my easel. I painted in silence, careful not to let the brush click against the glass jar.
When I heard my husband, Greg, shift upstairs, I slid the canvas under our bed and covered it with an old quilt.
“Greg, don’t start.”
By morning, I was Nora again. Wife. Mother. The woman who packed juice boxes and pretended her hands never held anything more dangerous than a spatula.
“Mommy, look!” my son, Toby squealed, holding up a crayon drawing.
“That’s beautiful, baby.” I kissed the top of his head. “You’re the real artist in this house.”
Greg came in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
