The Bluetooth in my car is usually a convenience, a way to handle calls while navigating Seattle’s evening traffic. But on that rainy Tuesday in October, it became the instrument that shattered my entire world and then, unexpectedly, gave me the tools to rebuild it. I had called Richard, my husband of fifteen years, just to let him know I was leaving my mother’s house early and would be home in about forty minutes.
He answered with that breathless, hurried tone he always used when he claimed to be in the middle of crucial business negotiations—the tone that made me feel guilty for interrupting his important work.
“Hey, babe,” he said, slightly out of breath. “I’m just wrapping something up.
Love you. See you soon.”
“Love you too,” I replied.
“I’ll pick up dinner on the way—”
The line went quiet.
I assumed he’d hung up and went back to focusing on the rain-slicked road ahead, my wipers working overtime against the downpour. But then, about ten seconds later, I heard his voice again through the speakers. Not the gentle, loving voice he used with me, but something lower, more arrogant, laced with contempt.
“God, she is so suffocating.
I almost slipped and called her by her name again.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I glanced at the screen—the call timer was still running.
He hadn’t hung up. The Bluetooth connection was still active, and Richard had no idea I could hear everything.
I opened my mouth to speak, to shout that I was still on the line, but then a woman’s voice responded.
A voice I knew as well as my own. “You’d better not,” the woman laughed, that familiar throaty sound I’d heard a thousand times across coffee cups and wine glasses. “I don’t want my son confused about who his real family is.”
Monica.
My best friend since college.
The woman who’d been in my wedding. The woman I’d held while she cried about being alone and pregnant just three months ago.
I didn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe.
I just merged into the slow lane, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack them.
“Don’t worry, babe,” Richard said, his voice dripping with confidence. “Laura is completely clueless. She lives in that fairy tale world her daddy built for her.
She thinks I’m grinding away at the office building our future when really I’m just counting down the days until we’re free.”
“I’m so tired of waiting, Richard,” Monica whined, and I could picture her perfectly—probably wearing one of the expensive maternity outfits I’d bought her last week, sitting in some medical office I’d probably paid for.
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