“Are you connected to Richard?” I asked.
She leaned in and whispered, “Check the bottom drawer of his desk before your honeymoon… or you’ll regret it.”
Then she left.
I tried to ignore it. Told myself there had to be a reasonable explanation.
But that night, after Richard fell asleep, I quietly went to his study.
My hands shook as I opened the bottom drawer.
Inside were documents—financial papers, property records… and a folder labeled with my children’s names.
Ava. Mason.
I opened it.
The first page was from a child psychologist, full of clinical language about instability and concerns about my ability to manage.
Then I remembered my daughter’s words about the “nice lady” asking questions.
The next document confirmed enrollment at a private school.
