She had taken the thing I was proudest of and turned it into a reason my husband might be neglected.
That night, after the dishes were done, I sat Irvin down at the table.
“She isn’t helpless,” I said.
He looked up from his phone. “Who?”
“Vanessa. She’s not struggling, Irvin. She’s manufacturing reasons to get you alone. Nobody moves the same shelf back and forth because she desperately needs help.”
He frowned like the thought had never occurred to him. “You think she’s flirting with me?”
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached across the table and took my hand.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll stop running over there every time she calls.”
I believed him. In seventeen years, Irvin had never once given me a reason not to.
Then Vanessa made sure there was no room left for doubt.
