Chapter 2
The message read: [Honey, good morning. Remember to buy the Lego set for Leo today. He's been asking for it for ages.]
My son, Jack, was eight years old and loved Lego.
Last month, on his birthday, I asked Peter if he could buy Jack a set.
Peter said, "That stuff is way too expensive. Why bother?"
I kept scrolling up through the chat history.
With every single message, my hands trembled even harder.
One message read: [Honey, can you check on the new house renovation again? I'd love the living room walls in cream.]
Another read: [Honey, don't forget to send over this month's household budget. Leo's extracurricular classes need to be paid soon.]
One message read: [Honey, I miss you. When are you coming to see Leo and me?]
I kept scrolling up for ages.
I wondered when these chats even started.
I kept scrolling all the way back to the start.
It was March 12, 2016.
The first message was from Peter.
He had texted: [Hi.]
That year, we'd only been married two years.
Jack was only one year old.
I set the phone down and found my eyes stayed dry.
No tears.
A coldness rose from the soles of my feet.
Eight whole years.
These messages stretched back eight years.
It turned out everything started eight years ago, when I was still healing after having Jack.
I took a deep breath, picked up my phone, and started taking photos of his screen.
One page after another, one message after the next.
I lost count of how many photos I took.
All I knew was that when I finally stopped, it was already noon.
I didn't cry. I just felt numb. Cold, all the way to my bones.
At 3:30 PM sharp, I headed out to pick up Jack from school.
Jack was eight years old and in second grade.
He looked like me, with big eyes, a small mouth, and dimples when he smiled.
"Mom!" Jack called out, running over from the school gate, his backpack bouncing behind him.
I crouched down and hugged him tight.
"How was school today?" I asked.
"Check it out. I got a 98 on my math test," he said proudly.
"That's awesome," I said, ruffling his hair. I asked, "What do you want for dinner tonight?"
"Pork stew!" he said, his eyes lighting up.
"Alright," I replied.
Hand in hand, Jack and I walked home, those chats running nonstop through my mind: [Remember to buy the Lego set for Leo today.]
How old was Leo?
When we got home, I told Jack to go do his homework while I headed to the kitchen to start cooking.
Peter came home at 6:30 PM, just like always.
He walked in, changed his shoes, and plopped down on the couch. "What's for dinner?" he asked.
"Pork stew," I replied.
"Fine," he said.
I watched him from the kitchen doorway.
He was scrolling through his phone.
It was his regular phone, the one he always used.
What about the other phone?
I glanced toward the bedroom.
That phone was still under the bed, right where I'd left it.
I needed to know more.
At dinner, Jack kept going on about school.
Peter was glued to his phone the whole time, just muttering a distracted "yeah" now and then.
I asked Peter, "Have you been busy at work lately?"
"Not too bad," he replied.
I asked, "Do you have time this weekend to take Jack to the park?"
He didn't bother to look up as he replied, "We'll see. I might have to go on a business trip."
Peter was always going on business trips.
He was gone for at least a week every month.
Back then, I thought it was normal. He worked in construction; being away for work was how it was.
But now, I really wanted to know where he actually went on those trips.
By nine o'clock, Jack was fast asleep.
Peter was in the living room, watching TV.
"I'm going to take a shower," I said.
He just replied with a "Mm."
I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and opened my phone to check his business trip records.
He never posted anything on his social media.
But he had this habit: he'd always send his train or plane tickets to his mom, Nancy Thomas, so she wouldn't worry.
I still had Nancy's chat saved on my phone.
I opened our messages and started scrolling up.
Last December, Peter said he was going on a business trip to Dale for three days.
In March this year, he said he was heading to Dale for five days.
In June, he said he was off to Dale again, this time for four days.
Dale.
Why was it always Dale?
I pulled up the chat history on that old phone and typed in "Dale."
Message after message started showing up.
One read: [Honey, call me when you get to Dale tomorrow.]
Another read: [Honey, Leo wants to go feed the fish in the park this weekend. Are you free?]
A message read: [Honey, I got the keys to the new house. Can you come check it out this week?]
I picked up the key information: a new house, Dale.
I closed out of the chat and checked his banking app.
This old phone was linked to another bank card: one I'd never seen before.
I pulled up the transaction history.
In August 2024, Peter spent 7 thousand.
In July 2024, he spent 10 thousand.
In June 2024, he spent 9 thousand.
He was dropping between 7 and 10 thousand every month.
I kept scrolling back.
In January 2024, he spent 3 million.
I stared at that number, thinking I had to be seeing things.
The note said: [Final payment for the house.]
It felt like someone had reached right into my chest and squeezed my heart.