“Eighteen months.”

My entire body went cold.

Eighteen months earlier, I had still been going through IVF.

For five years, Ethan had watched me endure appointments, injections, failed cycles, and phone calls I eventually became afraid to answer.

Then, six months earlier, Atlas and Owen had finally been born.

Through all of it, I had trusted Ethan completely.

We shared passwords.

Bank accounts.

Calendars.

I believed there was nothing important about our lives that one of us knew and the other didn’t.

“You found out about her while we were still doing fertility treatments?”

“I’d only just learned about her.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“She calls you Dad.”

He closed his eyes.

That answer told me enough.

Before I could ask another question, the door opened and Dr. Collins stepped inside.

He had already told me Ethan had a mild concussion and a fractured wrist but nothing life-threatening.

“I need to examine him again,” he said.

Ethan looked at me.

“Don’t leave.”

I wanted another hour of answers.

Instead, I looked at the drawing in my hand.

“We are not finished.”

Then I walked out.

Six hours earlier, the hospital had called me about Ethan’s accident.

I had left the twins with my neighbor and driven there immediately.

Once I arrived, the doctor told me Ethan would recover.

Then a nurse handed me the clear plastic bag containing his wallet, keys, cracked phone, and wedding ring.

His ordinary life.

Until his wallet shifted inside the bag.

And Mia’s drawing appeared underneath it.

That night, I brought Atlas and Owen home.

Owen fussed while I warmed his bottle.

Atlas kicked his feet against his seat.

Normally, Ethan would have taken one baby while I handled the other.

That night, the empty chair across from me seemed enormous.

I fed Owen while staring at the whiteboard in our kitchen.

Atlas — 4:30 bottle.

Owen — 5:00 bottle.

Laundry.

Ethan home — 5:15.

Schedules had become my way of coping during IVF.

I couldn’t control whether treatment worked.

But I could control medication times.

Appointments.

Phone calls.

Now one line on that board bothered me.

Ethan home — 5:15.

Except there had been late nights.

More than a few.

“Come on, Annika,” I whispered. “What have you missed?”

I opened my laptop.

Our accounts were shared.

If Ethan had known about Mia for eighteen months, I wanted to know how much of his life with her had been hidden from me.

It took fifteen minutes.

Small payments appeared every few weeks.

I had noticed some of them before, but Ethan had always called them miscellaneous expenses.

Now I opened each one.

School supplies.

Shoes.

A dental bill.

A summer program.

I sat back.

Owen made a sleepy sound against my chest.

“Your dad has been busy,” I whispered.

The words felt awful.

Because paying for those things wasn’t wrong.

That was the problem.

I wasn’t discovering that Ethan was a terrible father.

I was discovering that he had been quietly becoming a good father to Mia while lying to his wife about the fact that she existed.

The next morning, Ethan came home with instructions to rest.

He walked into the kitchen and glanced toward the twins.

“How are they?”

“Fine.”

“Can I hold them?”

“They’re sleeping. Wait until they wake up.”

He nodded.

Then I turned the laptop toward him.

“What are these?”

He stopped.

“Annika.”

“How often do you see Mia?”