I waited.
“You weren’t competing,” he said. “You were asking to be treated like my wife, and I made you feel ashamed for it.”
My eyes stung.
He continued.
“I also let you carry the responsibility of raising Noah while I was making decisions that could destroy our family.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me because I finally understand.”
I nodded.
He picked up the equipment bag.
“I’ll call about Noah’s school concert. He asked whether you could come.”
“I’d like to.”
Ethan looked relieved.
“Thank you.”
After he left, I sat in the kitchen for a long time.
I still loved him.
I also knew that loving him wouldn’t make the secrecy disappear.
For now, I needed a life where I wasn’t constantly wondering what I had failed to notice.
I found a small furnished apartment near my work.
It had a narrow balcony, a bright kitchen, and a round dining table with four chairs.
The first evening I spent there, I unpacked my recipe books before anything else.
Most were ordinary cookbooks.
One was a battered notebook filled with handwritten recipes I’d collected over the years.
Near the middle was Ethan’s birthday cake.
I turned the page.
Below it was a recipe for cinnamon rolls.
Noah’s favorite.
He’d helped me make them since he was six, though he usually ate more icing than he spread.
I left the notebook open on the counter.
That Sunday, Ethan brought Noah over for an afternoon visit we’d agreed upon in advance.
The moment Noah entered, he looked around.
