The Confrontation
“Tom,” I called out, trying to sound steady.
He looked up from his jacket, surprised. “Hey, you’re home early.”
I didn’t waste time. “Why are there tampons in your drawer?”
He froze.
The color drained from his face. For a moment, the silence was unbearable — thick and heavy, filled with everything I feared.
“Whose are they?” I pressed, my voice shaking.
He didn’t answer. He just sat down on the couch, buried his face in his hands, and let out a shaky breath.
Finally, he looked up at me — eyes wet, voice breaking.
“I should have told you,” he whispered. “It’s not what you think.”
