"I'm so sorry."
I thanked her. I don't remember what words I used, though. I just remember hanging up and staring at the fridge, at the little drawing Ava made of the three of us holding hands.
David. My David. The man who color-coded our tax folders and got shy ordering dessert.
I tried to think it through. I really tried because I had to figure something out.
I don't remember what words I used, though.
The late nights my husband had blamed on year-end filings. The way he'd stepped out of the room last Monday to take a call. And that receipt I'd seen on the counter weeks ago that I hadn't bothered to read.
My hands were shaking, and I hated that they were.
"Stop it," I said out loud to no one. "You don't know anything for sure yet."
I picked up my phone to call him and put it back down. I picked it up again. I put it back down.
My hands were shaking.
If I had called David at work, he'd have had hours to arrange a story. If I texted him, I'd read into every comma and sentence. So I made myself do the hardest thing, which was nothing.
I went through the day like a ghost. I got Ava ready for school and dropped her off.
When I returned, I stayed busy. Laundry. Dishes. A grocery run where I stood in the cereal aisle for 15 minutes without picking anything up.
He'd have had hours to arrange a story.
***
By school pickup time, my face must have looked strange because Ava took one look at me in the car line and asked if I was sick.
"I'm okay, sweetheart," I said as she got in. "Tell me more about all the fun you had at Josephine's yesterday."
"It was sooo much fun, Mom! We played spa!"
"That's nice." I gripped the wheel. "Ava, honey, did you tell Josephine something about Daddy's car?"
Her face lit up as if I'd asked about Christmas.
