I parked half a block away.
At 6:17 p.m., Rachel’s car pulled into the driveway.
At 6:19, the front door opened.
The tall man from Sofia’s drawing stepped out holding a toddler.
Rachel got out of the car smiling — really smiling, the kind of smile I hadn’t seen in years.
He kissed her. Casual. Practiced. Like this was not a beginning but a continuation. Then the little girl in the yellow dress came running out and wrapped herself around Rachel’s legs while my wife bent down laughing and brushed hair from the child’s face with a tenderness that made something inside me go flat and icy.
Then she went inside.
Home.
As if that house had already become hers.
I drove back in a silence so complete it felt like pressure on my ears.
By the time I got home, I was no longer wondering whether the affair was real. I was wondering how long my daughter had been used as a prop to keep it convenient.