That was the part he’d feared most.
Three years earlier, Lily had contacted him.
At twenty, she’d requested identifying information through the agency.
Her adoptive parents had always told her she was adopted.
She wanted medical history.
Then she wanted to meet him.
Ben met her for coffee.
Without telling me.
I felt sick.
“Three years.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been seeing her for three years?”
“Not regularly.”
“How regularly?”
“Maybe once every month or two.”
I stood.
“Every month or two?”
“Claire—”
“Where did you tell me you were?”
Work dinners. Golf. Helping his brother.
Ordinary lies. Dozens of them.
I walked into the kitchen.
Ben followed.
“Please let me explain.”
“What explanation fixes this?”
“None.”
“Good.”
I gripped the counter.
“Does Lily know about me?”
“Yes.”
That hurt differently.
“She knows you have a wife.”
“Yes.”
“Does she know I don’t know she exists?”
Ben swallowed. “Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
