Suddenly, Amanda came up in conversation more often.
“Amanda said this restaurant is amazing.”
“Amanda’s thinking about hosting dinner soon.”
“Amanda wants to do a little get-together.”
It was as if Daniel had opened a door back into his past and couldn’t stop stepping through it.
Every time he mentioned her, I wondered if he was really talking about Amanda at all, or if he was circling the name he didn’t dare bring into our kitchen.
Melissa was the ghost in our marriage now.
A name he had resurrected with one whisper.
Three weeks after the wedding, Daniel came home on a Thursday evening with that upbeat tone people use when they are trying to make something sound casual.
“Amanda’s coming over Saturday,” he said, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door. “Just a little friend night.”
I blinked.
“A friend night?”
He shrugged.
“She’s been stressed. Wants to drink wine, gossip, decompress. You know.”
I forced a smile.
“Sounds fun.”
Daniel hesitated. Just a fraction.
“You don’t have to leave or anything.”
But the way he said it didn’t sound like an invitation. It sounded like he was making sure I didn’t become a problem.
I set a dish in the sink and wiped my hands slowly.
“No, you two should have privacy.”
He relaxed immediately.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I can catch up on work in the garage. Clean. Organize. Whatever.”
Daniel’s face softened, and for a split second, he looked grateful.
That look almost made me angry.
Gratitude should not be what your husband feels when you remove yourself from your own home.
But I nodded, still calm, still controlled.
Inside, something cold and focused clicked into place.
Because if Daniel wanted privacy, I was about to learn what he was hiding inside it.
Saturday came.
I set up my laptop in the garage workshop, my project space. The garage shared a wall with the kitchen, and the construction was cheap enough that sound carried.
I knew that because, years ago, I could hear the neighbor’s dog sneeze through the drywall.
Daniel thought I would be busy. Distracted. Half-listening at best.
At eight o’clock, Amanda arrived with a bottle of wine tucked under her arm and a bright smile that looked practiced.
“Genesis,” she chirped. “You’re not banishing me to a girls’ corner, are you?”
“Not at all,” I said, lying easily. “Make yourselves at home.”
I walked them into the kitchen, played hostess for two minutes, then excused myself.
Garage. Laptop. Quiet.
I waited.
At first, their conversation was harmless.
Work. Mutual friends. A joke about the wedding.
Then the wine poured.
Laughter got looser. Voices got warmer.
And then, like a hand turning a knob, Amanda steered it.
“So,” she said, her voice dropping a notch. “How are things with you and Genesis?”