I told myself I was overthinking it.
Claire was in the shower. Her phone was face up on the comforter beside a pile of Lily’s mismatched socks.
The screen lit up.
“When are you finally getting rid of those children?”
I read it twice, because my brain refused to accept the words.
Isla. Her mother.
My stomach turned.
The screen lit up.
I told myself to put the phone down. I didn’t. I’m not proud of it, but I opened the chat instead, and the ground I’d been standing on for years just quietly gave way underneath me.
I scrolled. And scrolled. The thread went back months, almost to our second date!
The earliest messages weren’t Claire venting to her mom.
They were Isla giving instructions.
I told myself to put the phone down.
“Audition, don’t propose. Learn what the little one eats.”
“Praise the older one’s schoolwork. Widowers love that.”
