Chapter 6
Patrick
I DIDN’T SLEEP. I LAY awake for hours, staring into the darkness until the faint outline of the bedroom slowly emerged with the coming dawn.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Naomi’s voice.
After eight years... that’s who you think I am?
The words refused to leave me. I rolled onto my side. Her pillow still held the faint scent of her shampoo. Without thinking, I reached across the bed. My hand landed on an empty mattress.
She was gone.
I pushed myself upright and glanced at the clock. 4:37 a.m.
I’d spent the entire night replaying our conversation, searching for the moment everything had gone wrong.
At first I’d blamed the question. Would you be willing to do a paternity test?
That was the obvious answer. But somewhere between midnight and dawn, I finally understood what Naomi had been trying to tell me.
The question hadn’t broken us. I’d already broken something before I’d ever asked it.
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and walked downstairs. The house was silent, not the peaceful silence Naomi loved on weekend mornings. This silence pressed against me from every direction, filled every room, every hallway, every breath.
The kitchen looked exactly as we’d left it. My coffee mug still sat on the island. Beside it, her wedding ring.
I stopped moving. For several long seconds, I simply stared at it.
Eight years. She’d worn that ring every day we’d been married.
I’d seen it catch the sunlight while we walked through parks, tap against wine glasses during anniversaries, brush against my face whenever she reached up to kiss me.
I’d never imagined seeing it anywhere except on her hand.
Slowly, I picked it up. It felt impossibly light. I turned it over in my fingers until the engraving inside caught my eye.
Forever starts today.
I’d chosen those words. Naomi had laughed when we’d picked them.
“You know we’re going to think this is cheesy in twenty years.”
“I hope we still do.”
She’d smiled.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
The memory twisted something inside me. I closed my hand around the ring. How had we gone from that moment to this one?
I lowered myself into one of the kitchen chairs. The conversation replayed itself again. This time I didn’t interrupt it with excuses. I simply listened.
After eight years, that’s who you think I am?
At the time I’d wanted to explain. Tell her I was scared. Tell her Dustin had gotten into my head. Tell her I wasn’t thinking clearly. Now none of those explanations mattered. She hadn’t asked why I’d questioned her. She’d asked how I could.
I rested my elbows on the countertop and buried my face in my hands.
“I know you,” I whispered.
The words sounded empty. If I truly knew Naomi, why had Dustin’s question lasted longer than two seconds? Why hadn’t I laughed? Why hadn’t I looked him in the eye and said, You don’t know my wife.
Instead I’d hesitated. That hesitation had said everything Naomi needed to hear. Another man had questioned her character. Her husband hadn’t defended it.
I squeezed the ring tighter. I’d spent the whole evening believing she’d been hurt because I doubted the baby’s paternity. That wasn’t it. Not really. The baby had simply exposed something much deeper. I’d allowed a stranger’s opinion to compete with everything I already knew about my wife.
The thought made me feel sick. Naomi couldn’t lie convincingly if she tried.
She apologized when other people bumped into her.
She still cried during animal rescue commercials.
She remembered birthdays, favorite meals, and tiny details about people most of us forgot five minutes later.
She’d spent eight years showing me exactly who she was. Kind. Honest. Loyal. Steady.
And somehow I’d looked at all of that and thought one anonymous accusation deserved consideration.
I stood and wandered through the house. Her book still rested on the arm of the couch.
A blanket lay folded exactly the way she’d left it.
Her favorite mug sat drying beside the sink.
Every room reminded me of her. The silence wasn’t empty.
It was full of everything we’d built together, everything I’d suddenly put at risk.
I stopped outside the spare bedroom. Three years ago we’d painted it pale yellow because we’d convinced ourselves it would become a nursery.
After another failed round of treatment, we’d quietly turned it back into a guest room.
Neither of us had ever admitted how much that hurt.
Naomi still lingered in the doorway sometimes, just for a moment, as though imagining a different future.
A cold realization settled over me. Yesterday she’d been carrying that future home. She’d known. She’d been pregnant before I ever walked into the kitchen.
I saw it now. The way she’d kept reaching for her purse. The tears she’d blamed on being emotional. The smile she’d tried so hard to hide. She’d been waiting to tell me, waiting to make me the happiest man alive.
Instead I’d asked her to prove our child was mine.
I closed my eyes.
“I destroyed it,” I said, and the words echoed through the empty house.
Not just the announcement. Not just the evening. I’d destroyed the moment we’d spent eight years praying for.
And as the silence settled around me once more, I finally understood what Naomi had meant. She hadn’t walked away because another man doubted her. She’d walked away because her husband had forgotten who she’d always been.
I stared at the countertop after the words left my mouth. I couldn’t take them back. I’d spent the entire night convincing myself I’d made a terrible mistake. Now I understood how much I’d lost because of it.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and unlocked the screen. The anonymous message still sat near the top. Yesterday, it had felt urgent. Important. Now it made me feel sick.
I opened it. The photograph filled the screen. Naomi stood outside the coffee shop. Eric stood facing her with a paper cup in one hand. They were smiling. That was all. No embrace, no kiss, no hand on her back, no stolen touch, nothing hidden inside the frame. Just two people talking.
I zoomed in. There was enough space between them for another person to stand comfortably. Yesterday I’d ignored that. I’d looked at the photograph already believing there had to be something wrong.
I pinched the image smaller and read the message underneath it.
Congratulations... but are you sure you’re the father?
I read it again. Then a third time. That was everything. One photograph. One sentence. No claim she’d cheated. No evidence she’d lied to me. No explanation of who’d taken the picture. No date. No time. Nothing that connected one ordinary conversation to the conclusion I’d reached.
I lowered the phone onto the island and stared at it.
“What was I thinking?”
The answer came almost immediately. I hadn’t been thinking.
I’d been afraid. Afraid that after years of disappointment, something we’d wanted so desperately was about to be taken away.
Afraid of believing everything was finally going to be okay.
I’d called it caution. I’d told myself I was asking difficult questions because I had to. The truth was much harder to face.
I’d allowed fear to speak louder than trust.
I picked up the phone again and looked only at the photograph.
Naomi hadn’t been trying to hide anything.
If she’d been having an affair, why would she have told me she’d seen Eric?
She’d volunteered his name before I’d ever asked.
She hadn’t stumbled over an explanation.
She hadn’t looked guilty. She’d simply told me she’d run into an old friend, because to her, that’s exactly what had happened.
I closed my eyes. I could still hear her voice.
“Actually, I saw Eric.”
She’d looked me straight in the eye. There hadn’t been the slightest hesitation. I’d invented that afterward. Every suspicious thought I’d had, every conclusion I’d reached, none of it had come from Naomi. It had all come from me.
A stranger had sent one anonymous message. I’d done the rest.
I let out a slow breath and locked my phone.
Eight years. The number settled over me with crushing weight.
Eight years of birthdays, vacations, hospital waiting rooms, negative pregnancy tests, quiet nights on the couch, arguments that always ended with one of us apologizing first. Eight years of watching Naomi choose me every single day.
She’d never once given me a reason to question who she was. Not once.
Yet I’d looked at one photograph and one anonymous sentence, and I’d allowed them to outweigh eight years of marriage.
I stared at the dark screen in my hand. The evidence had never been enough. The doubt had been mine.
I couldn’t sit in the house any longer. Every room reminded me of Naomi. Her book still rested on the arm of the couch. Her favorite mug sat beside the sink. A cardigan she’d draped over the dining room chair two days ago was still there, waiting for someone who hadn’t come home.
I grabbed my keys before I could talk myself out of it. There was only one place she’d go. Hannah’s.
The drive felt longer than it ever had before. Every red light gave me another chance to turn around. Every mile forced me to think about what I was going to say if Naomi opened the door.
I’m sorry.
The words felt painfully small. How did you apologize for telling the person you loved that you didn’t trust them? You didn’t. Not with two words.
By the time I pulled onto Hannah’s street, my palms were damp against the steering wheel. Her car was in the driveway. So was Naomi’s. Relief hit me so quickly it almost hurt. She was here.
I parked at the curb and walked to the front door. My hand hovered over the doorbell for a second before I finally pressed it.
Footsteps approached. Hope rose in my chest. The door opened.
Hannah stood there. Not Naomi.
“Patrick.”
“Hi.”
She didn’t move. She didn’t invite me inside.
“What do you want?”
“I need to see Naomi.”
“No.” The answer came so quickly it caught me off guard.
“Please.”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
“I just need five minutes.”
“You don’t have five minutes.”
I glanced past her shoulder.
“I know she’s here.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”
“Can you ask her?”
“I already did.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
Hannah held my gaze.
“She said no.”
The word settled heavily between us.
“I need to explain.”
“You already did. You explained why I asked the question.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I need to tell her I was wrong.”
“You were.” There wasn’t any anger in Hannah’s voice, just certainty.
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“I do now.”
She folded her arms.
“I’ve known Naomi since the day she was born.”
“I know.”
“I’ve watched her spend eight years loving you.” Each word landed harder than the last. “I’ve watched her sit through appointments, treatments, surgeries, and disappointments without ever making you feel like any of it was your fault.”
I looked down at the porch.
“I know.”
“No.” Her voice stopped me. “I don’t think you do. If you did, you would’ve known exactly who she was when someone questioned her.”
I swallowed.
“I let fear get into my head.”
“I believe you.” For the first time since I’d arrived, her expression softened.
“But fear doesn’t change what happened. You didn’t accuse her of cheating.
” She frowned. “I know it sounds strange, but that’s not what hurt her most.” She took a slow breath.
“You accused her of being someone she isn’t. ”
The words hit me harder than anything Naomi had said the night before.
“You told the woman who’s spent eight years proving she’s honest that you weren’t sure you believed it anymore.”
I closed my eyes.
“I know.”
“No.” Hannah shook her head gently. “I think you’re only just starting to.”
Silence settled between us.
“I love her,” I said quietly.
“I know you do.”
“Then help me.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
“This isn’t something I can fix.” She glanced back into the house before looking at me again. “Naomi needs time.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
I nodded slowly. The answer hurt because it was honest.
“I’ll keep apologizing.”
“I think you should.” She rested one hand against the door. “But don’t mistake an apology for repair.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“You can apologize in five minutes.” She held my gaze. “Trust takes a lot longer.”
Neither of us spoke. After a moment, Hannah gave me a small, tired smile.
“Go home, Patrick.”
I looked past her one last time. I never saw Naomi. I nodded, turned, and walked back to my car.
The drive home was quieter than the drive there. Not because I had fewer thoughts, but because Hannah had stripped away the last excuse I’d been holding onto.
I hadn’t ruined my marriage because I’d asked the wrong question. I’d ruined it because, for one terrible moment, I’d forgotten exactly who my wife was.
And I finally understood that saying I was sorry wasn’t going to fix what I’d broken.