When Leigh’s husband returns from a work trip looking worse for wear, she chalks it up to stress and long hours. But a sudden illness, photos, and one unexpected message unravel everything. With newborn twins to protect and the truth closing in, Leigh learns that betrayal doesn’t knock, it infects.
When Derek came back from his work trip, he looked like the closing scene of a disaster film…
you know, when the main character looks like they’re about to pass out from overcoming everything?
Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.
My husband stood in the doorway with his suitcase dragging at his side like an anchor. His eyes were glassy and his skin was pale. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his brow, and when I stepped forward to take the bag, he didn’t let go.
He just dropped it, like even lifting it again would knock him over.
“I feel awful, Leigh,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
“I barely slept. I’ve been running on fumes since before the conference.”
I nodded. I’d been up every two hours for the past five nights with two colicky babies who seemed to cry in shifts.
Still, guilt pricked at me.
While I’d been “at home,” he’d been out there, working.
He shuffled toward the stairs, but I stepped in his way.
“No, honey,” I said. “Guest room, please. You’re not going near the twins until we figure out what this is.”
Derek didn’t argue, he just kept walking, like any detour from the stairs was a kindness.
By the morning, a rash had bloomed across his torso, angry red bumps forming tight clusters around his shoulders, arms, and neck.
I pressed the thermometer to his forehead and felt something sharp and scared twist in my gut.
Look, I’m not a doctor; I’m just a new mom with Google at my fingertips. And every search led to one word on the screen: chickenpox.
“Derek,” I said, gently pulling down the collar of his shirt. “This looks like chickenpox, honey.
Your rash matches almost every photo I’ve seen on the internet.”
He blinked at me as if I’d accused him of harboring a criminal.
“No,” he croaked. “It’s probably stress. My immune system’s just trash, Leigh.
That conference destroyed me.”
But I went into survival mode.
I brought him food, carried on a tray like I was serving royalty. I made soup the way his mother used to; chicken, carrots, not too salty, and he didn’t even notice the effort.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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