My husband’s early returns from work — always when our nanny was still there — set off alarm bells. But it was our nonverbal six-year-old, Oliver, who exposed the truth.
He couldn’t speak, but he noticed everything. James had grown distant: secret phone calls, hushed talks with Tessa, the nanny, and those strangely timed afternoons home. It felt like betrayal, but I pushed the thought away—until the day Oliver appeared with blue marker scrawled across his palm: “Dad lies!”
He pointed to James’s briefcase. Inside, I expected proof of an affair. Instead, I found a folder of medical reports. Words leapt off the page: Stage 3. Aggressive treatment required.
James’s face fell when he saw me. “I didn’t want you to know. I thought I could spare you.”
Tears blurred my vision. “You don’t get to face this alone. We’re supposed to fight together.”
Oliver wrote again, this time: “I love Dad.”
We held each other then—no more secrets, no more lies. Whatever time remained, we would face it as a family.
