The next afternoon, I rushed back to the hotel, heart pounding, laptop open.
Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I’d watched too many courtroom dramas.
Then I pressed play.
1:03 p.m.
There they were. Molly and Patrick. On my couch. Her legs wrapped around him like this was their house, their life.
My kids’ voices floated in from the next room.
My hands shook as I scrubbed forward, then I unmuted the audio.
“…shouldn’t stay long,” Patrick was saying. “Georgia might come home early.”
“She won’t,” Molly replied. “She trusts you. And me.”
He laughed. “She’s always been too trusting.”
Then her voice dropped. “So… when?”
“Soon. Once the custody stuff is in motion. You’ve already got them calling you ‘Mommy.’ That’s step one.”
She giggled. “God, I can’t wait until this house is ours.”
My stomach turned. Custody. Our house.
And then, the punch to the throat:
“Molly?” Tommy’s little voice.
“Yes, baby?”
“Can I call you Mommy now?”
He wasn’t confused. He was rehearsed.
They weren’t just cheating. They were building a future without me – using my children as props.
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