PART 1
I never thought twice about letting my husband enjoy a rare night out.
But the next morning, I opened the refrigerator and found a tray of homemade lasagna that definitely hadn’t been there before. Written across the lid were two words that made me question everything I thought I knew about my marriage.
Ryan brought up the football match around four that afternoon, asking in the cautious way he always did when he was already expecting me to object.
“You’re really okay with me going?”
“I already said yes.”
“I can stay home.”
“Ryan.”
He grinned. “Okay. I’m going.”
He had worked six days straight and was due back early Sunday morning. Meanwhile, I would be home with our three children: Ben, six, Maisie, four, and eleven-month-old Ella, who still treated sleeping through the night as an unreasonable suggestion.
But I honestly didn’t mind.
“Have a beer,” I told him. “Enjoy yourself. Don’t rush home.”
He left around six.
By seven, I was already reconsidering how generous I had sounded.
Ella screamed throughout her bath. Ben couldn’t locate the dinosaur toy he apparently required in order to survive bedtime. Maisie rejected three different pairs of pajamas before eventually choosing the first pair again.
By nine, all three children were finally asleep.
At nine-thirty, Ella woke up.
At eleven, Maisie appeared beside my bed crying because of a nightmare and climbed under the covers before I could respond.
I eventually fell asleep around midnight with one of her feet pressed firmly into my back.
I vaguely heard Ryan return at about 1:20 in the morning.
The front door clicked shut.
The staircase creaked.
A faucet ran downstairs.
Then Ryan tried to come upstairs quietly, although his version of being quiet somehow involved making more noise than usual.
I remember him stopping briefly in our bedroom doorway.
After that, I was asleep again.
His alarm went off at 5:50.
I barely noticed him getting dressed.
By the time the children properly woke me, Ryan had already left for work.
At around 8:30, I came downstairs carrying Ella on my hip and opened the refrigerator to get her bottle.
That was when I noticed it.
A rectangular glass baking dish sat on the middle shelf.
It wasn’t mine.
Every container I owned was cheap plastic from the supermarket. This was thick, expensive-looking glass with a dark blue lid—the kind of dish someone definitely expected to get back.
Inside was lasagna.
Homemade lasagna.
And one square had already been removed from the corner.
The rest had been neatly covered.
Then I noticed the writing across the lid.
Two enormous words in black marker.
FOR DADDY.
I stood there staring until the refrigerator started beeping.
“Mum!” Ben called from the table. “I’m hungry.”
I closed the fridge.
For the next ten minutes, I made toast while my mind desperately searched for an innocent explanation.
Ryan had brought home food.
Fine.
Someone had given it to him.
Also fine.
Someone who owned expensive glass cookware had prepared homemade lasagna, eaten some of it, and then somehow sent the rest home with my husband.
Less fine.
And then there were those two words.
FOR DADDY.
I opened the refrigerator again.
The writing was still there.
Of course it was.
I stared at the missing portion.
Had Ryan eaten it?
Had he been sitting at somebody else’s kitchen table?
And more importantly—
Who was calling my husband Daddy?
“Mum?”
I slammed the fridge shut.
“What?”
“I’m still hungry.”
“You’ve got toast.”
Ben looked down.
“Oh. Right.”
I got through the rest of the morning because three children do not care whether their mother is quietly wondering if her marriage is falling apart.
There were shoes to find.
Laundry to hang.
Snacks to prepare.
