Paige loves her career, even if it means being away from home a lot. However, when she returns from a business trip, she overhears a cryptic conversation between her husband and her four-year-old son. Little does she know — the thread of her marriage is about to unravel.
When I think about the foundations of my life, there were three that always stood out: my husband, Victor, my son, Mason, and my career. Despite the storms that Victor and I weathered together, including four heart-wrenching miscarriages, we emerged stronger than before the storm.
Victor and I were a strong and supportive couple — we knew what worked for us and what didn’t. Especially when it came to healing from the miscarriages we had survived.
“It’s okay, Paige,” Victor constantly reminded me. “We’ll have our baby when the time is right. If not, there are other options.”
I would always smile at him, wondering when his words would come true.
But then, a pregnancy test came back positive. And three months later, our baby was still thriving in my womb.
A woman holding a pregnancy test | Source: Pexels
So, when Mason came into our lives, it felt like our shattered dreams had finally pieced themselves back together. Mason became the one thing that we focused on unconditionally. Whenever our son needed us, we dropped everything.
“Mason is a lucky kid,” Victor said one day when Mason was running around our backyard. “He is incredibly loved.”
And he was. Victor and I prided ourselves on caring for our son above everything else.
With my demanding role as a chief executive with a clothing brand, traveling was a constant part of my life. I was involved in every step of our product designs — right until our clothing hit the stores.
Often, this resulted in me leaving Victor and Mason to fend for themselves. But it wasn’t something I worried about — Victor was a perfect father. He had even changed his work schedule, so that he worked from home more than from the office. This way, he was around for Mason.
“I don’t want a babysitter or a nanny taking care of our son,” Victor said one day when he was cooking us dinner.
“If you can handle the days, then the evening shifts are all mine,” I compromised.
I did feel bad that Victor had to hold down the fort during the day, but we didn’t have another choice.
Recently, because Mason is four and ever the curious little boy — I know that pre-school is on the horizon. So, in an attempt to be more present and spend more time with him as a toddler, I vowed to limit my work trips.
But little did I know, it was during my absence that the fabric of our family began to unravel.
A mom with her son in the bathroom | Source: Pexels
I had been away for about three days, stuck in meetings and all I wanted to do was get home and hug Mason, smelling the baby fabric softener from his clothing.
The day that changed everything was like any other. I took a cab from the airport and eagerly awaited to see my husband and son.
When I walked in, the house was oddly quiet, with shuffling upstairs.
Victor’s voice was hushed but urgent — the same urgency that Mason associated with bad behavior and bedtime.
An empty house with open doors | Source: Pexels
“Buddy, you’ve got to promise me one thing, okay?” Victor said.
“Okay,” Mason muttered innocently. “What is it?”
“You’ve got to promise me that you won’t tell Mom what you saw.”
“But I don’t like secrets,” Mason said. “Why can’t I tell Mommy?”
Victor sighed deeply — it ran through the house, as if carried by air.
“It’s not a secret, Mason,” he said. “But if we tell Mommy, it’s going to make her sad. Do you want Mommy to be sad, buddy?”
It was my son’s turn to sigh.
“No, I don’t,” he said.
A child playing with toys | Source: Pexels
I took a deep breath, sensing that the conversation was over. From my spot halfway up the stairs, I put my bags down and called out.
“Mason! Victor! Mom’s home!” I called loudly.
“We’re in here,” Victor shouted.
I walked into Mason’s room and found Victor sitting on his bed, while our son sat on the floor surrounded by his toys.
“What’s going on?” I asked, Mason leaping into my arms.
“Nothing, honey,” Victor said, winking. “Just a boys’ chat. Welcome home.”
Victor stood up and kissed my head on the way out.
A woman hugging her son | Source: Pexels
“Got to get back to work,” he said.
I was disturbed for the rest of the evening. I wanted to believe Victor — that the conversation I had overheard was truly nothing important.
It’s probably Victor wanting to hide the fact that he gave Mason too much sugar or junk food in general, I thought to myself.
After all, Victor had never given me a reason to doubt him. Yet, that night, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned, and when I couldn’t fall asleep, I scrolled through my phone wanting to see how our new clothing line was doing.
I tried to keep my mind as busy as possible. But Victor’s whispered words haunted me — would something as simple as eating the wrong food make me “sad”?
Something was amiss, I knew it.
The week-long business trip that followed was torture. I loved my job, and I loved working on the new campaign we were running out. But I hated being away from Mason for so long. Victor’s daily photos of Mason were my only solace until one of the photos brought about more questions than answers.
Victor had sent a series of photos to me — in each of them, my son was playing with a new toy. But in one of the photos, there was a pair of blue shoes in the background. They were not mine. And yet, there they were, in my living room.
They taunted me.
My heart raced as I scrolled through previous photos, trying to source more signs of betrayal that I had missed in the joy of seeing my son.
The flight back home was a blur. I sat in my seat and scrolled through the incriminating photos — together, there were about six with evidence that another woman was constantly in our home. I drank champagne to keep my nerves calm.
I knew that the moment I entered my home, everything was going to change. Either, my husband would confess that there was someone else in his life — or that there was a nanny looking after our son.
A nanny with expensive shoes, I thought.
