He sat hunched over his laptop, barely looking up. “What, Celia? Can’t it wait?”
“Did you take my mother’s jewelry?”
He frowned, feigning confusion.
“No. Maybe the kids were playing with it? You know how they love to pretend.”
My gut twisted.
The children didn’t even know that box existed. Still, I checked. I gathered Liam, Mia, and Jules into the playroom.
“Did any of you take something from under Mommy and Daddy’s bed?” I asked gently. They all shook their heads. “No, Mommy.”
But Jules, my eldest—my thoughtful, honest nine-year-old—hesitated.
Her eyes flicked up at me, guilty and scared. “I saw Daddy take it,” she whispered. “He told me it was a secret.
And he said he’d buy me a dollhouse if I didn’t tell.”
Something cracked inside me then. I kissed her forehead, told her it was okay, and let them keep playing. But I stayed there on the floor for a long time, my chest heavy, my breaths uneven, my entire world shifting under the weight of a truth I wasn’t ready to face.
