Michael had a steady job managing operations for a local distribution company. Emily had moved into her own apartment after college, although she lived only fifteen minutes away and visited us several times a week.
Sometimes I teased Michael that he worried about Emily more than I did.
“She’s my girl,” he would reply.
I never questioned what he meant.
Until three months ago.
It began with a change so small that I almost ignored it.
Michael started coming home late.
At first, it happened once a week. Then twice. He would walk through the door around nine o’clock, loosen his tie, and tell me that a delivery had been delayed or a meeting had run over.
I believed him because I had never needed a reason not to.
But soon, he began keeping his phone facedown on the kitchen table. He stepped outside to answer calls. When I entered a room unexpectedly, he sometimes stopped speaking.
