Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
At nine o’clock the next morning, my mother, Evelyn, walked up the stairs carrying a stack of flat cardboard boxes. Her steps were careful on the wooden risers, her formal, old-fashioned posture upright despite the heavy load. She stopped at the threshold of the room at the end of the hall, setting the cardboard down on the floor with a dry slide.
The room was filled with the morning light of a cold November. It was the room Richard had insisted we set aside for Monica’s baby, the space he had secretly paid to decorate using my own credit cards. On the floor near the closet sat a wicker basket containing pink paper decorations and a folded blue baby blanket.
My mother adjusted her gray knit shawl over her shoulders, pulling it tight against the autumn draft. She looked at the pastel pink stenciling of small birds along the top of the wall.
“We should begin with the hanging decorations, Laura,” she said, her voice quiet and even.
“I have the packing tape in my pocket,” I said.
