I would not accuse him of anything. Not until I had the facts.
By the next afternoon, I would have more facts than I wanted.
The following morning, Greg packed his suitcase and left for his business trip.
“Drive safe.”
He studied my face for a second too long. I gave him my usual soft smile, and he left.
There were four Rachels.
Once his car cleared the driveway, I opened my laptop.
The yard sale post was still up in a neighborhood group. I opened the message box and typed.
Me:Hi, Marla! I bought the little pink stroller from you yesterday. My son loves the doll that came with it. Do you happen to know if she had a name?
She replied within an hour.
Marla: Oh, Hi! That stroller belonged to my friend Rachel’s daughter. Her name’s Carol. They just moved, so Rachel left a bunch of things with me to sell.
He’d never told me her name.
Rachel.
I opened Marla’s profile and searched her friends list. There were four Rachels.
The third one made me stop. Her profile picture showed a woman about my age standing beside a freckled little girl. Carol.
I clicked her page and started scrolling.
There was something familiar there.
Nine years back, I found a photo of Rachel kissing Greg on a rooftop, both of them younger, both of them laughing.
Greg had mentioned a serious girlfriend before me once, years ago.
He’d never told me her name.
Finding Rachel explained the past.
But it didn’t explain why my six-year-old had been inside her house.
I kept scrolling.
Then I scrolled forward and found Carol. Seven years old, freckled, grinning at the camera.
Something about her face made me stop.
I leaned closer to the screen.
There was something familiar there, but maybe I was seeing what I was already afraid of seeing.
I didn’t cry. I made coffee.
‘New home, new beginning.’
My mother had raised me on one rule: don’t decide anything until you’ve got the facts. Weather, cattle, people. All the same.
I kept scrolling.
