“How do you know about that?”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“That’s your concern?”
“Emily, listen—”
“No. You answer the question.”
He rubbed both hands down his face.
And suddenly I knew.
Not suspected.
Knew.
Because innocent people don’t react like that.
Finally, he sat heavily onto the couch.
“We were seeing each other,” he whispered.
Everything inside me shattered all over again.
Five days earlier we buried our daughter together while he stood beside me hiding this secret.
“How long?” I whispered.
“About six months.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“You brought another woman around our child?”
“It wasn’t serious at first,” he rushed out. “Lauren wanted to meet Ava, so I picked her up before daycare. She bought coffee for me and a smoothie for Ava.”
A horrible feeling crawled up my spine.
“What kind of smoothie?”
“Strawberry banana.”
My voice came out hollow.
“What was in it?”
Mark looked down.
“I don’t know. Fruit… yogurt maybe…”
“And dairy.”
Silence.
Ava had a severe dairy allergy.
Life-threatening.
Everyone close to us knew it.
Especially Mark.
“She drank dairy?” I whispered.
“She didn’t know!” he cried desperately. “Lauren didn’t know about the allergy!”
But he did.
He knew.
And because he was too distracted managing an affair and two separate lives, he never checked the drink before handing it to our daughter.
The room tilted around me.
Ava trusted them.
Trusted him.
And his carelessness killed her.
Then another realization slammed into me.
The funeral.
The rushed paperwork.
The way he kept telling me not to overwhelm myself with questions.
