I sat at our kitchen table, the hum of the refrigerator a constant backdrop, staring at the calendar app on my phone. It was a shared calendar, meant for coordinating the chaos of a blended family. But here, in the faint glow of the screen, was something that didn’t belong: “Meeting – 9 PM.” The date read September 6, a Wednesday. My spouse, Alex, was across the room, focused on chopping vegetables for dinner, the rhythmic sound of the knife a counterpoint to my rising unease.
“Hey,” I called out, keeping my voice casual. “What’s the meeting about tonight?”
Alex paused, the knife hovering above a half-sliced carrot, and turned to face me. “Just some work stuff,” Alex replied, a practiced smile in place. The answer was too smooth, too rehearsed. It left me with more questions than comfort. I nodded, pretending to be satisfied, but inside, a knot of suspicion tightened.
As I watched Alex return to the task at hand, I resolved to dig deeper. There was more to uncover, and I needed to know the truth.
After dinner, I retreated to our bedroom, phone in hand, and scrolled through the calendar entries. There were more late-night meetings, each cryptically labeled without further details. This wasn’t the Alex I knew, or thought I knew. My heart pounded as I pieced together the fragments of an unexpected puzzle.
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