I never questioned it.
I trusted my mother. I trusted Godfrey. Most of all, I believed my wife was safe.
During our video calls, Phedra always said, “I’m fine, my love. Don’t worry.”
Then, a few months ago, she stopped turning on her camera. Bad internet, she said. An old phone. She was tired.
Now I knew why.
Phedra tried to stand, but her legs buckled. Godfrey came outside in new designer clothes holding a glass of scotch.
“Hurry up. We still need the dinner plates.”
“I feel dizzy,” Phedra whispered. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
Godfrey laughed. “With everything you stole, you should be able to buy yourself a feast.”
Every part of me wanted to charge through that door.
But years around failing machines had taught me something: when something starts breaking down, listen before you touch it. The noise tells you where the failure began.
So I listened.
Phedra begged to call me. Selina came into the backyard wearing the gold hummingbird necklace I’d given Phedra for our fifth anniversary.
“He has the right to know I’m sick,” Phedra said.
“You’re not going to worry him,” Selina answered. “He’s working to get us ahead, not carry the burden of your drama.”
