“I made a joke. That’s what I do. Now David gets to play the hero and everyone will be talking about this tomorrow.”
I said nothing.
I carried the plates into the kitchen, set them down, walked upstairs, and closed the bedroom door.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the triplets breathing through the baby monitor.
One shifted.
Another sighed.
The third stayed perfectly quiet.
I didn’t cry.
I simply felt cold.
At seven the following morning, my phone buzzed.
It was David.
“Belinda, I owe you an apology. Not only for last night. For a lot longer than that. Can I send you something? I think you need to see it.”
I stared at the message.
Then typed:
“Send it.”
Screenshots started arriving.
One after another.
They came from a private group chat Richard shared with his friends.
Months of messages.
