Chapter 1
The woman who opened my husband’s front door was wearing the sweatshirt I had bought him for Christmas.
She had pushed the sleeves up over a black tank top. Her auburn hair hung straight over one shoulder, and her feet were bare.
I stood inches from her on the porch.
“Why are you in my husband’s house?”
Her hand tightened around the door.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Behind her, afternoon sunlight fell across a living room I had furnished. The cream sofa was mine. The walnut table beside it had belonged to my mother.
A man’s jacket lay across the armrest.
My husband’s jacket.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nia.”
Something changed in her face.
She knew my name.
That hurt more than seeing his clothes on her.
I stepped forward. She kept hold of the door but did not close it.
“You need to talk to him,” she said. “Not me.”
I gave a bitter laugh.
“So there is something to talk about.”
My gold earrings brushed my neck as I turned toward the hallway. I had dressed for a meeting that morning in a dark-blue denim jumpsuit, carrying the designer handbag Marcus gave me on our fifth anniversary.
The gift had arrived with a handwritten card.
To the woman who makes every place feel like home.
I wondered how many homes he had meant.
The woman glanced behind her.
“Please lower your voice.”
“Why? Is he sleeping?”
“No.”
“Is he working?”
She did not answer.
“Then call him.”
She stepped onto the porch and pulled the door almost closed behind her. Not enough to shut me out. Enough to keep our voices from carrying.
“Nia,” she said carefully, “he told me you two were finished.”
My anger stopped moving.
For one second, I could only stare at her.
“Finished?”
“He said the divorce was taking time.”
I looked at her hand. There was no wedding ring.
“How long have you been here?”
“Six weeks.”
Six weeks.
For six weeks, Marcus had told me the house was empty because the contractor needed access for repairs. For six weeks, he had complained about delays, delivery problems, and workmen who never arrived when they promised.
The porch looked perfect.
The hallway looked perfect.
The only thing under construction had been his excuse.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Tasha.”
“Did he tell you when we separated?”
“Last winter.”
I swallowed.
Last winter, Marcus and I had spent Christmas with my brother. In February, he had surprised me with dinner for our anniversary. In March, he asked whether we should finally take the trip to Italy I had wanted for years.
He had kissed me goodbye that morning.
“He slept beside me last night,” I said.
Tasha shook her head automatically.
“No.”
I opened my handbag and took out my phone.
There was a photograph from the previous evening. Marcus and I stood on our back patio beneath the lights he had helped me hang. His arm was around my waist. Mine rested against his chest.
I had sent it to my aunt with a message about how happy I was that he had finally taken a night off.
I turned the screen toward Tasha.
“Finished? This was last night.”
She stared at the photograph.
Then she looked at the date.
Her face seemed to empty.
“He said he was visiting his mother.”
“He told me he needed quiet time at home.”
Tasha looked toward the narrow opening in the door.
I watched her breathing change.
Until that moment, I had expected a smirk. A lie. A woman ready to tell me I had lost.
Instead, she pressed her lips together like someone trying not to be sick.
“He lied to both of us,” she whispered.
I did not know whether to believe her.
I knew how easily Marcus could make a lie sound like the kindest version of a difficult truth.
He had done it to me often enough.
The house belonged to both of us. We had bought it as an investment two years earlier, planning to renovate it and rent it out. I had paid most of the deposit from money my mother left me.
Marcus said handling the renovation would give him a chance to contribute more.
I had let him manage everything.
I thought I was trusting my marriage.
Now I saw my mother’s table through the doorway and remembered asking him to store it carefully until the house was ready.
Tasha followed my gaze.
“He said his grandmother left him that table.”
“My mother did.”
Her shoulders fell.
“He told me a lot about his family.”
“Did he tell you his wife was Black, like him? Did he tell you she runs her own design business? Did he tell you she was paying for this place while he played house?”
“He said you were a former business partner who wanted money.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
That one was familiar.
When I questioned a bill, he said I cared too much about money. When I worked late, he said I cared too much about my business. When I asked him to come home, he said I did not trust him.
Apparently, he had assembled those complaints into a woman he could introduce without admitting I was his wife.
Tasha touched the edge of the door.
“I can show you his messages.”
“Later.”
I wanted to see him first.
I wanted to hear whether he would use the same warm voice with both of us standing there.
Tasha seemed to understand.
She opened the door a little wider.
Then his voice came from deep inside the house.
“Tasha, who’s at the door?”
We both froze.
The easy affection in his voice was unmistakable.
I knew that voice.
He used it when calling me from the kitchen. When asking whether I wanted coffee. When pretending our life was exactly what I believed it was.
May you like
I slowly turned toward the hallway.
“Perfect,” I said. “Let’s ask him together.”
