Chapter 12

THEN:

Angela sat at the kitchen table, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood, gaze fixed on Will. He stirred his coffee, lost in a mechanical rhythm that seemed to echo the ticking of the wall clock—relentless, monotonous.

They had been married for five years, and she had given birth to two children. But lately, something had changed.

"Will?" Her voice sliced through the silence, a tremble betraying her calm exterior.

He glanced up, spoon clinking against the mug's edge. "Hmm?"

"Is everything okay?" The words barely took shape, laced with worry. "Are we okay?"

In the space between heartbeats, Will's eyes flicked away. Guilt? Maybe. He set the spoon down and forced a casual shrug.

"Yes, everything is okay. Why wouldn't it be?"

"You've been… distant lately. You barely say anything to me."

He shook his head, then got up and put his cup in the sink. "It's just work stuff. And speaking of, I should be going now if I want to make it to my morning meeting." He pecked her on the cheek, then left.

Her throat tightened. Lies didn't suit him. But she exhaled, smoothing out the creases on the linen tablecloth, choosing trust over suspicion… for now.

After Will left, Angela paced the kitchen. She paused at the window, peering out as if the answer might be etched in the frosty glass. The doorbell's chime cut through her reverie, and she hastened to welcome solace in human form.

"Mom," Angela exhaled as Diane stepped into the embrace of the coolness of the AC in the kitchen.

"Darling," Diane greeted, her presence an instant balm to the room's chill. "Sweet tea sounds perfect."

They settled at the table, silence stretching between them, laden with words unspoken. Diane poured the iced tea, then handed a glass to her with a deep sigh.

"What's going on?" Diane asked, tilting her head. "I sense something is wrong with you. Is it the kids?"

"Mom," Angela began, voice barely above a whisper, "there's something… off with Will."

Diane offered a smile, the practiced curve of her lips contrasting the furrowed concern on Angela's brow. With a touch, light as a petal, she reached across the table, her fingers grazing Angela's hand.

"Every marriage dances through shadows, my dear," Diane soothed, her tone wrapping Angela in a shawl of maternal wisdom. "It's natural. Especially when you have children. They take up a lot of space and exhaust their parents. There really isn't a lot of energy left once the day is over. It'll get better when they're older."

Angela felt the weight of her mother's gaze, heavy with years of unspoken understanding. Yet beneath it, an undercurrent of dismissal pulled at her, eroding the shores of her resolve. Her heart ached, a silent plea for recognition hovering in the air, unanswered.

Angela's hand clenched around her tea, the glass a fragile barrier against the rising tide of her worries.

"He's distant, Mom. It's been going on for a while now."

"It's probably just work, honey," her mom said. "Men get like that. Exactly how is he distant?"

"He forgot our anniversary, and he dismisses conversations about the kids," she said, the words tumbling out like runaway beads from a snapped necklace.

Diane's brows knit together briefly, her elegant posture shifting in the cushioned chair.

"Angela, love… I hardly think that qualifies as"

"His phone is always locked. And there are nights when he comes home late, reeking of someone else's perfume." Angela's voice cracked, the fear and determination mingling into a tremulous force. "I'm sure of it."

A flicker of concern danced across Diane's features. She leaned forward, her eyes searching Angela's face as if looking for the daughter she once knew, who saw the world in softer hues.

"Sweetheart," Diane began with a note of caution, "are you certain you're not just… spinning tales?"

Tears pooled in Angela's eyes, blurring the kitchen into a watercolor smear. "Mom, please."

"Think of all Will's done for you. His work is demanding, and—" Diane's voice was a velvet cover, trying to smooth the creases in her daughter's narrative.

"Mom, it's not just stress. There are messages he hides from me!" Angela's plea scattered the veil of calm Diane tried to weave. "He will turn his phone away as I approach him or put it down suddenly."

Diane reached out, her touch light on Angela's trembling hands, her own heart caught in the snare of maternal instinct.

"Darling, you know Will. He loves you."

"Does he?" Angela whispered, the question a splinter in her chest.

"Of course," Diane insisted, but her voice lacked its usual conviction, her glance briefly flitting away before settling back on Angela's distraught face.

The room seemed to contract around them, the air thick with the weight of unspoken fears and uncertainty.

Angela's fingers clenched into fists, nails digging crescents into her palms. She drew a deep breath, the air seemingly reluctant to enter her lungs.

"Mom," she said, voice steadying like iron forged in fire, "I need you to listen to me—really listen."

Diane's posture shifted, a fortress of resistance waning. Her eyes, once guarded, softened under Angela's earnest gaze. "I am listening, Angie. I've been listening all this time."

"Will is hiding things from me, and I can feel it eating away at me every day." Each word Angela spoke was deliberate and measured, carving out her reality. "It's more than just missed dinners or distant looks. I'm scared, Mom."

The confession hung between them, heavy and undeniable. Diane's hand fluttered to her chest where a gold locket lay—a relic she had inherited from her own mother.

"Angela," Diane began, her voice now a whisper betraying inner turmoil, "If that's what's going on, then you need to figure out what you want to do about it."

"I don't know how—" Angela started, but the question died on her lips. The admission was a gut punch, her worst fears inching toward truth.

"Confrontation has never been our way, has it?" Diane's eyes flickered with something ancient, a history of untold stories.

"No," Angela agreed, her response a mirror of recognition. "But silence hasn't protected us either, has it? I mean, Dad cheated, didn't he? I remember you telling me about it. That's why you two divorced before he died."

Diane's face, usually an unreadable canvas, crumpled slightly at the edges. "No, darling. Perhaps not. I will say that I've also noticed him being a little distant the past few times I've been over here for dinner. I don't want to jump to conclusions as it could be many things. But I understand your worry."

Angela's heart, already leaden, sank deeper into the abyss of doubt and fear. If Diane had noticed, then the veil of normalcy they'd clung to was nothing but thin threads, ready to tear.

"Thank you," Angela whispered, the words a lifeline thrown across the chasm growing within her family. "For seeing it too."

---

The front door clicked shut behind Diane. Angela lingered on the porch, watching as her mother's car pulled away, the hum of the engine fading into the evening air. Their eyes had locked moments before, a silent exchange that spoke volumes; she could trust her mother's support; they were in this together now.

Angela turned, her gaze falling upon the house that once promised perpetual sanctuary. Now, it whispered secrets. She steeled herself, her jaw set, and crossed the threshold with a deliberateness that echoed through the empty hallway.

Inside, the quiet was a living thing, pulsing with the heartbeat of the unknown. She allowed herself a moment, just one, to feel the weight of her resolve settle into her bones. Then, she moved.

Her steps were measured and determined as she ascended the staircase. Each creak of the wooden steps matched the rhythm of her quickening pulse. At the top, she paused, hand resting on the cool banister, and drew a deep breath. This was strategic warfare within her own walls, and she needed a plan.

In the sanctuary of their bedroom, Angela paced, her thoughts a whirlwind of strategy and suspicion. She opened a drawer, fingers brushing over Will's neatly folded shirts, and closed it again. Too obvious.

"Think," she muttered to herself.

She visualized Will's daily routines, his habits, and the slight deviations that had begun to form an unsettling pattern. The late-night phone calls he dismissed with a wave, the unexplained absences, the receipts from local restaurants left carelessly in his pockets—a trail if one knew how to look.

Her eyes fell upon his study, a room filled with the musk of old books and leather—a place where he spent hours under the guise of work. It was there she would start her search. A surge of adrenaline propelled her forward.

"Carefully," she reminded herself.

At the study door, Angela's hand hesitated on the knob. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a prisoner seeking escape. She pushed the door open.

"You need to know. You need to find out the truth," she whispered into the silence.

With meticulous precision, Angela began her quest. She hurried to the computer and turned it on. She checked his emails but found nothing, then checked the internet search history—only to find it scrubbed clean.

She stared at it, startled.

"Who cleans their internet history if they don't have anything to hide?" she noted with a frown.

A floorboard creaked somewhere, the sudden sound slicing through the tense atmosphere. Angela froze, her breath caught in her throat. Was it Will? No, it was way too early. Still, caution was her ally.

She turned off the computer, ensuring everything was as Will had left it. She backed out of the room, her movements fluid and silent, a dance of necessity.

"Tomorrow," she thought, "another day, another chance to uncover what's hidden."

Angela closed the study door with a soft click, her mind already racing ahead. Plans layered upon plans, each step bringing her closer to either salvation or ruin.

"Ready," she affirmed, a whisper lost in the shadows. "For whatever you're hiding, Will."