“I…” She moistened her lips. “I think you should call your husband.”
“I’m asking you.”
She did not answer.
The sound of my husband’s existence inside her silence had already fractured something in my chest.
I could feel Leo watching me and hear the fluorescent supermarket humming around us, yet I could not force out another word.
She noticed.
Whatever she saw on my face softened her expression into something almost gentle.
Almost apologetic.
She smiled at me.
A small, warm, unreadable smile.
Standing there beside my son and a carton of milk, I could not tell whether it was the smile of a stranger offering kindness or the smile of a woman quietly destroying my life.
“Who are you?” I asked.
My voice sounded low, unsteady, and unfamiliar.
“I’m sorry?”
“Who. Are. You.” I moved closer until Leo’s swinging feet brushed against my hip. “My son says you come to my house when I’m at work. So who are you?”
