That night, I watched Stella move around the kitchen like it was any other evening.
Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun.
She was casually scrolling through her phone while stirring something on the stove.
I didn’t want my son to feel like he’d done something wrong.
She kissed me on the cheek when I walked in, asked how my day went, and mentioned that Liam needed new pajamas because he was growing like a weed.
If I hadn’t talked to Liam that afternoon, I would’ve thought everything was fine.
I barely touched my dinner.
Every time I looked at her, I felt a knot tightening in my chest.
I wanted to ask her. Confront her. Demand answers.
But something stopped me.
