Phyll was inside, gently wiping Barbara’s face, his expression filled not with disgust, but with concern and care.
Yet during my postpartum bleeding, he wouldn’t even hand me a pad. He’d just toss it from two meters away, afraid to come near.
Now, Barbara let him tend to her like she was a fragile crystal, glaring at me with watery eyes.
“Sabrina, I already told you, there’s nothing going on between us. Why’d you have to do that? I’m a clean freak! How am I supposed to eat now? I’m sick to my stomach thanks to you!”
I blinked innocently and replied, “Oh, really? You can put your mouth on Phyll when he hasn’t showered, but one diaper’s too much for you? I thought you liked dirty things. Guess your ‘clean freak’ rules depend on who it’s with.”
“Enough!” Phyll snapped, his voice sharp with anger. “Sabrina, you’ve crossed the line. Barbara was retching just now; she even threw up bile. Do you have any idea how bad that is for her body? Apologize right now!”
Apologize?
She flirted with my husband under my roof, and I was the one who should apologize?
My gaze shifted to the wall where a chart hung.
Phyll once asked me what it was, but I never told him.