“Whose secret?”
He didn’t answer.
“Ben, are you having an affair?”
“What? No.”
“Is there another woman?”
“No.”
“A child?”
He hesitated.
Less than two seconds. But enough.
My stomach dropped.
“Ben.”
“It’s not what you think.”
The ceiling cracked above me.
“Claire, get out of the room.”
At least that made sense.
I stepped into the hallway.
The plumber arrived nine minutes later and shut off the water.
By then, the pink stain had spread across the carpet.
I stood outside the office while my brain created every possible version of my marriage.
Ben and I are both 42.
We don’t have children.
We tried for years.
Doctors. Tests. Two early miscarriages.
Then a pregnancy that made it to 17 weeks.
We named her Sophie.
After losing her, I couldn’t keep trying.
Ben never pressured me.
He held me when I cried.
He told me a life with me was enough.
