His alarm went off at 5:50.

I barely noticed him getting dressed.

By the time the children properly woke me, Ryan had already left for work.

At around 8:30, I came downstairs carrying Ella on my hip and opened the refrigerator to get her bottle.

That was when I noticed it.

A rectangular glass baking dish sat on the middle shelf.

It wasn’t mine.

Every container I owned was cheap plastic from the supermarket. This was thick, expensive-looking glass with a dark blue lid—the kind of dish someone definitely expected to get back.

Inside was lasagna.

Homemade lasagna.

And one square had already been removed from the corner.

The rest had been neatly covered.

Then I noticed the writing across the lid.

Two enormous words in black marker.

FOR DADDY.

I stood there staring until the refrigerator started beeping.

“Mum!” Ben called from the table. “I’m hungry.”

I closed the fridge.

For the next ten minutes, I made toast while my mind desperately searched for an innocent explanation.

Ryan had brought home food.

Fine.

Someone had given it to him.

Also fine.

Someone who owned expensive glass cookware had prepared homemade lasagna, eaten some of it, and then somehow sent the rest home with my husband.

Less fine.

And then there were those two words.

FOR DADDY.

I opened the refrigerator again.

The writing was still there.

Of course it was.

I stared at the missing portion.

Had Ryan eaten it?

Had he been sitting at somebody else’s kitchen table?

And more importantly—

Who was calling my husband Daddy?

“Mum?”

I slammed the fridge shut.

“What?”

“I’m still hungry.”

“You’ve got toast.”

Ben looked down.

“Oh. Right.”

I got through the rest of the morning because three children do not care whether their mother is quietly wondering if her marriage is falling apart.

There were shoes to find.

Laundry to hang.

Snacks to prepare.

And a baby who repeatedly attempted to eat objects she discovered beneath the sofa.

But every time I walked into the kitchen, I thought about that lasagna.

By eleven, my imagination had created an entire woman.

I didn’t know her name.

But apparently my brain had decided to design her kitchen.

She cooked everything from scratch.

She owned expensive baking dishes.

Maybe she had a little girl.

That thought made my stomach twist.

A child.

Daddy.