It started with laundry. A crumpled note in the pocket of my daughter’s jeans—unsigned, but unmistakably written in my husband’s handwriting. The last line stopped me cold:
My stomach dropped. That night, after the kids were asleep, I showed him the note. His face drained of color.
“It’s not what you think,” he muttered.
I whispered, “Then explain it.”
He rubbed his eyes, buying time. I could see the gears turning.
Sitting at the edge of our bed, he finally said,
“It’s about Abby. Someone’s been meeting her after school. I found out two weeks ago. She asked me not to tell you.”
I blinked.
“Meeting who?”
He hesitated.
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