When Leigh’s husband returns from a work trip looking worse for wear, she chalks it up to stress and long hours. But a sudden illness, photos, and one unexpected message unravel everything. With newborn twins to protect and the truth closing in, Leigh learns that betrayal doesn’t knock, it infects.
When Derek came back from his work trip, he looked like the closing scene of a disaster film… you know, when the main character looks like they’re about to pass out from overcoming everything?
Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.
My husband stood in the doorway with his suitcase dragging at his side like an anchor. His eyes were glassy and his skin was pale. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his brow, and when I stepped forward to take the bag, he didn’t let go.
His eyes were glassy and his skin was pale.
He just dropped it, like even lifting it again would knock him over.
“I feel awful, Leigh,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I barely slept. I’ve been running on fumes since before the conference.”
I nodded. I’d been up every two hours for the past five nights with two colicky babies who seemed to cry in shifts. Still, guilt pricked at me.
While I’d been “at home,” he’d been out there, working.
“I feel awful, Leigh,” he muttered.
He shuffled toward the stairs, but I stepped in his way.
“No, honey,” I said. “Guest room, please. You’re not going near the twins until we figure out what this is.”
Derek didn’t argue; he just kept walking, like any detour from the stairs was a kindness.
By the morning, a rash had bloomed across his torso, angry red bumps forming tight clusters around his shoulders, arms, and neck. I pressed the thermometer to his forehead and felt something sharp and scared twist in my gut.
“You’re not going near the twins until we figure out what this is.”
Look, I’m not a doctor; I’m just a new mom with Google at my fingertips. And every search led to one word on the screen: chickenpox.
“Derek,” I said, gently pulling down the collar of his shirt. “This looks like chickenpox, honey. Your rash matches almost every photo I’ve seen on the internet.”
He blinked at me as if I’d accused him of harboring a criminal.
“No,” he croaked. “It’s probably stress. My immune system’s just trash, Leigh. That conference destroyed me.”
“Your rash matches almost every single photo I’ve seen on the internet.”
But I went into survival mode.
I brought him food, carried on a tray like I was serving royalty. I made soup the way his mother used to; chicken, carrots, not too salty, and he didn’t even notice the effort.
I ran cool washcloths over his forehead while he groaned like a man surviving something noble, as if I’d forgotten that he’d only been gone for a week.
… and he didn’t even notice the effort.
I didn’t let the twins near the lower level of the house. Not even for a moment, not even to see their father. I sterilized every bottle and pacifier twice.
I bathed them in lavender water to help them sleep, and I kept the baby monitor with me at all times, the screen flickering like a warning light.
After every interaction with Derek, I showered. Sometimes in the middle of the night, shivering while the water warmed. I wiped every doorknob. I opened windows and washed his bedding more often than he said “thank you.”
“You don’t have to fuss so much, Leigh,” he said once, when I entered with another load of clean sheets.
I didn’t let the twins near the lower level of the house,
not even to see their father.
“I do,” I replied. “The twins are not vaccinated.”
“Then take them to get vaccinated, Leigh,” he said, frowning.
“They can’t. Not until they’re a year old. Have you read any parenting books?”
He didn’t answer. He just shifted in the bed like the topic was too heavy to hold.
“Have you read any parenting books?”
But I was holding it. All of it, and I was exhausted.
And still, Derek kept feeding me stories about the pressure of his job, horrible clients, and the long nights at the conference while he prepared slide decks, even while I rubbed calamine lotion onto his back.
I tried not to think about how far away he’d felt even before this trip.
We were supposed to have dinner that weekend with my mom, Kevin, and Kelsey. Kevin was my stepdad who I had come to adore. Kelsey, my stepsister, was difficult to say the least.
I tried not to think about how far away he’d felt even before this trip.
I was about to cancel when my stepdad texted:
“Hey kiddo, sorry, but we need to reschedule our dinner. Kelsey’s sick. Looks like chickenpox. Mom and I were looking forward to being around the twins. But soon, okay?”
Then he sent me a photo.
And everything changed.
I opened the photo and saw Kelsey, cocooned in a blanket on Mom’s couch, her face dotted with the same red blisters I’d been treating on Derek.
And everything changed.
Same placement. Same pattern. Same week.
Kelsey’s “girl’s trip.”
Derek’s “work trip.”
I stared at the photo until the screen dimmed in my hand, then I tapped it again, needing the image to disappear and reappear like it might have changed. Maybe I’d misinterpreted it.
Maybe the blisters weren’t the same.
But my body already knew what my brain was fighting to deny.
Maybe I’d misinterpreted it.
“Everything okay?” Derek’s voice floated weakly from downstairs. “I’m ready to eat, Leigh.”
“Yeah,” I called back, swallowing the knot in my throat. “Just changing the twins. I’ll be down in a minute.”
The lie sat on my tongue like sour milk.
Chickenpox is contagious. Anyone can catch it. Maybe they both touched the same elevator button. Maybe it was nothing.
“I’m ready to eat, Leigh.”
But my instincts didn’t believe in coincidences anymore. They believed in timing. And they believed in the way my husband’s eyes shifted when I asked him about the hotel. And they believed in Kelsey’s silence.
But my instincts didn’t believe in coincidences anymore.
Read more: Leigh stops ignoring her instincts and goes looking for proof.
👉 Continue reading on the next page to see what she finds on Derek’s phone.
