Page 97 of Faultlines

I remember him setting a cup of tea on my desk while I worked late on grant applications. The greasy paper bag he handed me in the middle of the night because I’d been craving a milkshake and fries while pregnant.

That man was real. Which means the man in that video is real, too.

I lower the phone into my lap.

We survived financial struggles when we were young. Sleepless nights with a newborn. Career changes. Family losses. All the countless challenges that come with building a life together.

I never questioned whether we’d make it because I assumed we already had. What did I miss? Where did the first lie begin?

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, startling me.

Lucy: Dad just dropped Ellie off. She’s helping Jensen feed horses and wants to stay for dinner. We’re keeping her overnight.

Relief washes over me. One more night before I have to explain why we’re living above a barn. One more night before I have to answer questions, I’m not prepared to answer.

My phone remains in my hand, my eyes drifting to the missed notifications from Ethan. I haven’t listened to any of them. Every time his name appears, I set the phone down, finding it easier to ignore him than confront whatever waits in those messages. Now, with nothing left to distract me, I realize I’ve run out of reasons not to listen.

My thumb pauses inches from the screen. The first voicemail is from Saturday around lunchtime. I close my eyes and listen until the message ends.

“Claire, it’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, but please call me when you get this.”

The second begins.

“Claire, I’ve been trying to reach you. Your dad said Ellie is fine, but nobody seems to know where you are. Please… just call me.”

I swallow hard and let the next one play.

“Claire, you’re scaring me. If you’re angry about something, let’s talk about it. Just tell me where you are. Please.”

I press my hands against my face and try to steady my breathing. He sounds like my husband. The man who worries when I’m late. The man who calls from the grocery store because he can’t remember which coffee creamer we buy. The person I’ve loved for more than half my life.

Tears stream down my face and I stop trying to hold them back. I grieve not only my marriage, but the future I had already begun living in my mind—retirement trips, grandchildren, growing old together.

The floorboards outside the apartment creak followed by a soft knock. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, but Lucy lets herself in anyway, two mugs in hand, steam curling into the air. She hands me a mug, sets hers down with a quiet clink, and sits beside me. No questions. Just the warmth of her shoulder against mine and two mugs of tea slowly growing cold.

I wrap both hands around the mug and stare into the tea. “How do I tell Ellie?”

“I don’t know.”

Her honesty is strangely comforting.

“She’s only thirteen. How am I supposed to tell her that our family won’t be the same anymore? What if she blames herself?”

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “She won’t.”

“What if she hates him?”

“I think that’s something she’ll have to figure out for herself. She’s more mature than you give her credit for.”

“Nobody warned me it would feel like this.”

A sad smile touches Lucy’s face. “No.”

I lean back against the couch and watch the last light disappear. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up tomorrow and discover none of this happened. I keep waiting for someone to explain it in a way that makes sense.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer.

“You have people here who love you. We’re going to help you get through this.”