I didn’t scream.
I didn’t confront him.
I didn’t even step into the kitchen.
I remained in the dim hallway, one hand against the wall, watching Mark stir the powder into the steaming broth as casually as if he were adding sugar to coffee.
Then he glanced over his shoulder.
That small movement told me everything.
People don’t usually check whether anyone is watching when they’re adding ordinary seasoning.
I stepped backward before he could see me and quietly entered the guest bathroom.
For several seconds, I stared at myself in the mirror.
I looked pale.
Tense.
Older than I remembered.
My name is Diane Foster.
I was fifty years old that Sunday evening, and until that moment, I would have told anyone that after twenty-six years of marriage, I knew my husband completely.
I was wrong.
Mark and I lived in Carmel, Indiana, in the same brick ranch house we had purchased when we were young.
We never had children.
Life simply unfolded differently for us.
We filled our years with careers, church events, weekend trips, dinners with friends, and the traditions Mark’s mother, Judith, treated almost like law.
The most important tradition was Sunday dinner.
Every Sunday at 5:30, the Foster family gathered at Judith and Harold’s home near Geist Reservoir.
Being late was frowned upon.
Missing dinner was nearly unthinkable.
That particular Sunday, Mark and I arrived three minutes late.
“You’re late,” Judith said when she opened the door.
“Traffic,” Mark answered.
From his recliner, Harold glanced over.
“There wasn’t any traffic.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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