“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t trust me.”
I stared at him.
“Should I?”
He didn’t answer.
That night, we had our first serious argument.
“You’re jealous of your own sister,” he said.
“I don’t want to be.”
“But you are.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.”
“Think that your husband loves you.”
“I want to.”
“You should.”
His voice became quieter.
“Because I do.”
That sentence broke something inside me.
I cried.
He held me.
And for a while, I felt ashamed.
I apologized to him.
The next morning, I apologized to Rachel too.
She hugged me.
“I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“I know,” I whispered.
She pulled back and looked directly into my eyes.
“You have to trust me.”
I nodded.
But when she walked away, I noticed something.
Her hands were shaking.
That was when I stopped believing my own excuses.
Not because I had proof.
Because I realized I was no longer the only person uncomfortable in that house.
Everyone was hiding something.
I just didn’t know what.
A week later, Daniel left his phone on the kitchen counter.
A message appeared.
