Then came Mrs. Whitman’s question—the accusation that nearly broke me.
That night, I couldn’t eat. The pain of her mistrust weighed on me. I wanted to tell her everything—the lipstick, the phone calls, the perfume—but what if he denied it? What if he twisted it to make me the guilty one?
The days that followed were heavy. Mrs. Whitman no longer smiled at me as easily. Conversations felt forced. Mr. Whitman acted as though nothing had happened, still taking his secret calls at the edge of the property.
One afternoon, Mrs. Whitman took Emily and me out for dinner, hoping to lighten the mood. At the supermarket, Emily teased, “Mama, buy me white chocolate, but don’t expect me to share!” Mrs. Whitman laughed and promised us both a treat.
