A new neighbor. A nervous smile. A look that lingered too long on my husband through the kitchen window. She said fate brought her here—but I should’ve trusted that chill crawling up my spine.
I met April on a thick, sweltering July afternoon. Her little girl clung tightly to her side, and she wore her exhaustion like perfume. I helped carry boxes, trying not to judge. But the way April’s gaze followed Dave through the glass? That wasn’t coincidence.
Later, in the kitchen, I asked Dave about her. He shrugged too fast. “No idea who she is.” His eyes said otherwise.
That night, I caught him slipping across the lawn to her house. No hesitation. No knock. He walked in like it was home.
I followed.
They weren’t touching—but they didn’t need to. History hung thick in the air. Lies rolled too easily off their tongues. That night, I found the proof: a photo, buried in our closet, of Dave and April—lovers, smiling like their world was perfect.
Now April says her daughter might be his.
He says he wants to do the right thing.
I say: Not so fast.
