Chapter 2
Patrick
I shut down my computer, slipped my laptop into my bag, and reached for my phone.
One new message. Unknown number.
I frowned. Spam, probably.
I opened it anyway.
A photograph filled the screen. Naomi stood on a sidewalk wrapped in another man’s arms.
My stomach tightened before my brain had a chance to catch up.
Beneath the photograph was a single sentence.
Congratulations... but are you sure you’re the father?
I stared at the words. Then I looked at the picture again.
The man had his back to the camera. I couldn’t see his face. Naomi’s expression was hidden against his shoulder.
There was no context. No explanation. Just a frozen moment designed to tell one story.
A cold rush swept through me, disappearing almost as quickly as it came.
“No,” I said under my breath.
Not Naomi. Not us.
Anyone could take a picture at the right moment and make it look like something it wasn’t.
After eight years together, I knew my wife.
I knew the woman who had held my hand through every failed fertility treatment, every specialist appointment, every drive home when neither of us could find anything hopeful to say.
She wasn’t capable of betraying me.
I deleted the message without another thought, slipped my phone into my pocket, and headed for the elevator. Whoever had sent it had picked the wrong couple.
I made it halfway home before I reached for my phone at a red light. The message was gone.
Good. That’s where it belonged.
The light turned green, and I set the phone back down.
For several miles, I managed not to think about it.
Instead, I thought about Naomi. About how hopeful she’d seemed that morning when she’d kissed me goodbye.
About the calendar reminder on my desk for her appointment.
About the promise we’d made years ago that no matter what happened, we’d face it together.
I smiled to myself. Maybe today had finally been our day.
Then, without invitation, the photograph slipped back into my mind.
The timing was the part I couldn’t seem to shake. Eight years of disappointment. Eight years of specialists telling us to keep trying. And now, on the very day Naomi might finally have good news, an anonymous stranger sent me that picture.
It couldn’t mean anything. I knew that. I trusted my wife. I did.
Even so, my thoughts kept circling the same impossible question.
Why today?
I hated myself for asking it. Naomi had never lied to me. Not once. She deserved a husband who dismissed that message without a second thought. Instead, I was driving home wishing I’d never opened it.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
“This isn’t her,” I said aloud.
The words sounded firm enough. I only wished they had quieted the fear beginning to settle in the back of my mind.
I turned the radio on, hoping the noise would drown out my thoughts. It lasted less than a minute. I switched it off again. The silence was worse.
Every memory I had of Naomi rose to the surface, each one arguing against the anonymous message I’d received.
The first time we’d met at a charity fundraiser, she’d apologized after spilling sparkling water down the front of my suit.
She’d been so mortified she’d offered to pay for the dry cleaning before she’d even told me her name.
Our first apartment with the leaking kitchen ceiling.
Our wedding. Every anniversary. Every late-night conversation about children that ended with one of us promising the other that we’d be okay, no matter what happened.
None of those memories belonged to a woman capable of lying to me.
So why couldn’t I stop thinking about that photograph?
I exhaled slowly.
Because it had arrived today. If it had come six months ago, I would have laughed and blocked the number. If it had come after a random Tuesday lunch, I probably wouldn’t have given it another thought.
But today, Naomi had gone to the fertility clinic. She’d insisted on going alone because I had an important meeting I couldn’t move. I’d apologized at least half a dozen times that morning, and she’d kissed me before I left.
“It’s just another appointment,” she’d said. “I’ll tell you everything tonight.”
Tonight. The word echoed through my mind. Maybe she’d been waiting to tell me we were pregnant.
The thought should have filled me with excitement. Instead, it collided with the anonymous message, and I hated the direction my mind tried to take.
“No,” I said, gripping the steering wheel harder.
The timing wasn’t proof of anything. It was coincidence. Cruel coincidence. Nothing more.
The person who’d sent that photograph wanted exactly this. They wanted me questioning my wife before I even walked through the front door.
I wasn’t going to let them win.
My phone buzzed again. My heart lurched before I glanced at the screen.
Traffic update.
I almost laughed at myself. This wasn’t who I was. I trusted Naomi. I trusted her more than anyone.
Didn’t I?
The question landed heavily in my chest. I hated that it existed at all.
Another memory surfaced. Three years earlier, after our third failed IVF cycle, I’d found Naomi sitting on the bathroom floor with every baby name book we’d bought stacked beside her. She hadn’t been crying. That had somehow made it worse. She’d simply looked exhausted.
“I think my body’s broken,” she’d whispered.
I’d knelt beside her and taken her hands.
“Your body’s not broken,” I’d told her.
“It keeps failing.”
“No.”
“It does.”
I’d lifted her chin until she looked at me.
“We’re a team,” I’d said. “Whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere.”
She’d nodded, but I could tell she hadn’t believed me completely. So I’d repeated it. Again. And again. Until she’d finally leaned against me.
That was Naomi. The woman who blamed herself for things outside her control. The woman who apologized when life hurt her. The woman who still worried she’d somehow disappointed me because she couldn’t give us a baby.
My chest tightened. How could I even entertain the possibility that she’d betray me?
The answer was simple. I shouldn’t.
I pulled into our neighborhood, slowing as familiar houses came into view. The anonymous message had been designed to create doubt, not provide answers. One photograph. No context. No name. No explanation. Just enough to poison a happy day.
I reached for my phone while I waited at the final stop sign before our street. The message was still sitting in my deleted folder. I stared at it for several long seconds.
Then I selected it. Delete permanently.
A confirmation box appeared. I pressed Yes. The screen went blank.
Good. It was over. I wasn’t walking into my home carrying someone else’s lie. Naomi deserved better than that. She deserved my trust. She deserved the benefit of every year we’d spent building our marriage together.
By the time I turned into the driveway, I’d made up my mind. Whatever had happened in that photograph, Naomi would tell me if it mattered. If it didn’t, then I wasn’t going to give a stranger the power to steal one more minute of our happiness.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, climbed out of the car, and walked toward the front door.
As soon as Naomi opened it, she smiled at me with a warmth that reached all the way to her eyes.
I smiled back.
For the first time in our marriage, I wondered if love and trust could exist side by side with doubt.
The thought lasted only a heartbeat. Even so, it was there.