I lay there until 2 in the morning, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe, and feeling something I couldn’t quite name settle into my chest like a stone.
63%.
I know now that I should have looked at that phone.
I should have trusted my gut instead of trusting him because what I would have found that night would have changed everything.
And maybe, just maybe, I could have saved myself two more months of living in a lie.
But I didn’t look, and the lie kept growing.
And the next family dinner was only five days away.
That family dinner, five days after the phone incident, was at our house.
Naturally.
It was always at our house.
Karen had decided it was time for a casual Sunday supper, which in Karen-speak meant a three-course meal with cloth napkins and a centerpiece.
I spent all day Saturday prepping marinated chicken, roasted vegetables, and a homemade apple pie because Nana Ruth had mentioned once, once, that she liked apple pie, and Karen had turned it into a commandment.
“Ashley, you know how much Nana loves your apple pie. You are making one, aren’t you?”
Michael was supposed to help me clean the house Saturday afternoon.
Instead, he got a call around noon and said he needed to run to the office for an hour.
He came back four hours later with no explanation.
And when I asked where he’d been, he said, “Babe, it’s work stuff. You wouldn’t understand the sales side.”
I had a degree in finance.
I understood the sales side just fine.
But I didn’t push.
I cleaned the house myself, set the table for eight, and went to bed with aching feet and a headache that no amount of Advil could touch.
Sunday dinner started fine.
Karen arrived first, of course, 20 minutes early, which she knew I hated because it meant she’d catch me still in the kitchen, still sweating, still imperfect.
She walked in wearing cream-colored slacks and a silk blouse, surveyed the dining room, and moved three of my place settings to different spots.
“I just think the flow works better this way,” she said when I stared at the rearranged table.
Jennifer and Todd arrived next with their three kids, who immediately started running through the house.
Jennifer handed me a bottle of wine, a $7 Moscato from the gas station, and said, “I figured you could use this. You look exhausted.”
Brandon came alone that night.
He found me in the kitchen while everyone else was in the living room.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the counter. “How are you? Like, actually.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“Ashley,” he lowered his voice. “I’m not Mom. You can be honest.”
I looked at him, really looked at him.
And for a second, I almost said it.
Almost said, “Your brother came home at midnight with a dead phone that wasn’t dead, and something is wrong, and I’m scared.”
But Karen’s laugh rang out from the living room, and the moment passed.
“I’m just tired,” I said. “Help me carry the chicken.”
During dinner, Karen dominated the conversation as usual. She talked about the new landscaping at their house, the upcoming church fundraiser, Jennifer’s kids’ private school admissions.
At one point, she turned to me and said, “Ashley, have you thought any more about what we discussed?”
I blinked.
“What we discussed?”
“About stepping back from work. Michael mentioned you’ve been stressed.”
I looked at Michael.
He was cutting his chicken, not meeting my eyes.
“Michael said that?”
I kept my voice steady.
“Well, he worries about you, honey. And honestly, with how much you have on your plate at home, the house, the entertaining, everything you do for this family, it just seems like a lot. Something has to give.”
The table was quiet.
