Chapter 3 - THE PATCH
I barely slept.
Ariel woke twice whimpering in her room.
Glen slept in the guest room after I told him not to come near me.
At 5:40 a.m., I was in the kitchen making coffee when I heard the sliding door open.
Glen stepped in from the backyard wearing yesterday’s T-shirt and looking like he’d been outside for a while.
I said nothing.
He said, “Clara’s embarrassed.”
I laughed into my coffee cup. “That’s interesting, because I’m furious.”
He leaned against the counter and lowered his voice like we were discussing taxes, not betrayal.
“She had a procedure. It’s personal.”
“Then why was my daughter slapped for seeing it?”
“She panicked.”
“Why did you panic?”
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t.”
I stepped closer.
“What medical dressing is on her stomach?”
“It’s not my information to share.”
That sentence almost impressed me.
It was slick. Legal-sounding. Meant to make me feel unreasonable.
Instead it made my whole body go still.
“Not your information to share,” I repeated. “But your lips were on it in the pool house.”
His face flickered.
There.
Fear.
Then I knew.
Not the whole truth.
But enough of its shape.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” I said. “Why were you touching Clara like that?”
He looked me dead in the eye.
“Because she asked me to help re-tape the dressing.”
I stared at him.
Then I set my coffee down.
“That’s the lie you’re going with?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You were kneeling.”
“She was standing.”
“Ariel said you kissed her stomach.”
“She’s three.”
I nodded slowly.
“Right. She’s three.”
Then I grabbed his phone off the counter before he could stop me.
He lunged too late.
The screen lit up.
One unread message.
CLARA:
Do not let her near me today.
I raised my eyes.
He reached for the phone.
I stepped back.
Then another message preview slid down before he could snatch it from my hand.
CLARA:
The injection marks are still visible.
My breath stopped.
Injection marks.
Not skin cancer.
Not a rash.
Not some dermatology patch.
Injection marks.
Glen ripped the phone from my fingers.
“It’s not what you think.”
I almost smiled at that, because there are some lines so pathetic they insult themselves.
“Then what do I think?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
At that exact moment Ariel padded into the kitchen in her pajamas holding her stuffed rabbit.
She saw us standing there.
Saw my face.
Saw his.
Then looked at Glen and said, softly but clearly:
“Daddy, why did you tell me not to tell Mommy about Clara’s tummy?”
May you like
Glen went white.
And in that second, every part of me that still wanted an innocent explanation died.
