Later that afternoon, I sat at the kitchen table, the printed list of calendar entries spread out in front of me like a map of an unfamiliar territory. Each date was a stepping stone, leading somewhere I couldn’t yet see. The air was thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, the pot on the counter still warm.
The children were in the living room, their voices a distant echo as they argued over the television remote. I felt a pang of guilt at the thought of them being caught in the middle of all this, innocent bystanders in a drama they couldn’t possibly comprehend.
“Mom, can we have pizza for dinner?” one of them called out, breaking my reverie.
“Sure,” I replied, forcing a smile as I turned my attention back to the list. I needed to know more about these meetings. I needed to understand what Alex represented in our lives.
As the afternoon wore on, I found myself drawn back to the computer, pulling up emails and messages, searching for threads that connected the dots. I found an email chain buried in the archives, a conversation between my spouse and Alex. It was innocuous enough, discussions about mutual friends and shared memories, but there was an undercurrent I couldn’t ignore.
“It’s been too long,” one message read. “We should catch up more often.” It was dated three months ago, just before the first calendar entry I had found.
The sound of the front door opening brought me back to the present. My spouse walked in, a smile on their face, as if nothing was amiss.
“How was your day?” they asked, leaning in for a kiss.
“Good,” I replied, my voice steady. “I was just going through some old emails.”
There was a flicker of something in their eyes, a hint of unease quickly masked by a laugh. “Ah, the digital age. Everything’s recorded, isn’t it?”
I nodded, biting back a response that might betray my growing suspicion. “Yes, it is,” I said instead, my voice soft but firm.
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