chapter4

"Fine," I said.

I took a breath and stepped forward.

"What's your name, by the way?" Brittney asked, turning back toward me.

A brief pause.

"Just call me Amy."

Brittney smiled. "Funny coincidence — my husband's sister goes by that too."

I walked beside her the rest of the way.

Brittney was still talking as she fished out her keys. "Kevin picked this house. Said the school district was perfect for the kids. His taste is just impeccable."

I stood in the doorway and looked at the warm yellow light bleeding through the windows.

"That sealed project his sister is on," Brittney said, pushing the door open, "honestly, it's been a godsend for us. Medical subsidies for the kids, school priority, and even a discount on this house because of the family designation. Kevin practically insisted she take that position. He really does think ahead."

That was the last blow.

It clicked into place all at once.

Kevin was the one who'd pushed me toward that project. He'd campaigned for it, encouraged me through every moment of doubt — even when I was on the fence, he kept at it, kept persuading me, until I said yes.

I'd missed my father's death because of that project. I'd had no chance to say goodbye.

He hadn't been thinking about me at all. He'd been making a trade — my isolation for his comfort, his life with her.

I followed her inside.

A row of photographs lined the entryway wall.

Kevin cradling a newborn. Kevin and Brittney kissing on a beach. The four of them in front of a Christmas tree. He was smiling in every single one. Easy, unguarded, natural.

"Make yourself at home," Brittney said, settling the baby into a play yard. The little girl had already run off to watch cartoons. "What would you like? Coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee's fine." I sat on the sofa, eyes moving slowly around the room.

The open kitchen counter held a coffee machine, and beside it a yellow sticky note in Kevin's handwriting:

Baby, breakfast is in the oven. Just heat it up.

The refrigerator was covered in crayon drawings, each one scrawled with: Daddy I love you.

"When was your son born?" I asked.

Brittney carried two cups over and sat across from me. "My little guy? December 5th of last year. Born at the best private hospital in the city. Kevin was right there the entire time — wouldn't leave the delivery room."

December 5th.

I took the cup. My fingers went stiff around it.

That was the day my mother had a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. Six hours on the operating table.

I had called Kevin seventeen times. He didn't pick up once.

When the nurses finally wheeled her into the ICU, I sat down in the hallway and cried alone. I was still there when visiting hours ended. Kevin never came.

He had been at the best private hospital in the city. Holding another woman's hand while she brought his son into the world.

"Are you alright?" Brittney was watching me. "You've gone a bit pale."

"I'm fine." I took a sip of coffee. "It's good."

She smiled. "Kevin picks the beans. He's very particular about these things. Anyway — what exactly did you want to discuss about the collaboration?"

Before I could answer, the door opened.

An older couple walked in carrying grocery bags.

They both stopped when they saw me.

"Mom, Dad — you're back," Brittney said, standing. "This is someone from NASA. She's here to talk to Kevin about a project."

The older man set down his bags and studied me. His gaze moved from my face to the NASA logo on my jacket and stayed there a moment.

"NASA?" His voice was flat. "Kevin's not home."

"I know, he's at work," Brittney said. "I invited her to wait here."

He gave a brief nod, then picked up his bags and headed for the kitchen.

Brittney leaned toward me and lowered her voice: "Kevin is incredibly devoted to his parents. He thinks of them for everything. My dad's back has been giving him trouble — Kevin takes him to physical therapy every single week. When my mom had eye surgery, Kevin stayed at the hospital for three days straight. Didn't sleep once."

"Kevin," the old man called from the kitchen, head appearing around the doorway, "is more like a real son to me than most real sons. You're a lucky girl."

I stared at the old man's back through the kitchen door.

The day of my mother's surgery, I signed the consent forms alone.

The day my father died, I didn't make it in time to see him.

The husband who never showed — who was never there for any of it — was in this house, looking after someone else's parents.