The Morning After
I didn’t confront Diane that night. I couldn’t. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything I had just heard. The whispers, the apologies, the intimacy.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the coffee machine brewing. I got up, groggy and still wrestling with the reality of what I had overheard.
Diane was already up, sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her coffee. She didn’t look at me when I walked in, but I could feel her eyes on me — the same way you can feel someone watching you, even if they’re trying to pretend they’re not.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” she said softly, her voice thick with regret.
I didn’t say anything at first. I just stood there, my hands gripping the edge of the counter.
Finally, I spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice came out quieter than I intended. “Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?”
Diane sighed. “It’s complicated, Marcus.”
“Complicated?” I repeated, my voice rising. “You’re living here in my house, and you’re seeing someone else? Do you have any idea how that feels? I thought we were just trying to figure out co-parenting, Diane. I didn’t sign up for this.”
