Rachel stared at the object in Ethan’s hand as if it had been waiting two years to accuse her.
It was a small digital voice recorder.
Old.
Scratched.
The kind Megan had once used to record reminders when she was juggling work, school schedules and Noah’s medical appointments.
Ethan remembered seeing it on the kitchen counter years earlier, but he had assumed it had disappeared with all the other ordinary objects that became painful after her death.
Now it had been hidden behind folded linens exactly where Megan’s letter had told him to look.
Rachel took one step backward.
“Ethan, you don’t know what that is.”
He looked at her.
“I know you’re afraid of it.”
Sophie and Noah were still in the laundry room.
Ethan could hear Noah crying softly while Sophie tried to comfort him.
That sound mattered more than anything Rachel could say.
He slipped the recorder into his pocket, kept the notebook in his hand and walked back to the children.
“Sophie, get your brother.
We’re leaving this room.”
Rachel blocked the doorway.
“This is ridiculous.
You come home early, see one disciplinary moment and suddenly I’m some kind of monster?”
Ethan looked at the milk spreading beneath the washing machine.
Then at the notebook.
Then at Sophie’s face.
“Move.”
Rachel did not.
She folded her arms.
“They need structure.
You’re never here.
Someone has to be the parent.”
Sophie pressed closer to Ethan.
Rachel noticed.
Her expression hardened.
“See what she does? She manipulates you.
Megan let her get away with everything too.”
Hearing Megan’s name in Rachel’s mouth made Ethan’s stomach twist.
He had spent two years believing Rachel had protected Megan’s memory.
She had told stories about her at birthdays.
She had cried beside Ethan on the anniversary of Megan’s death.
She had kept one framed photograph of Megan in the living room because she said the children should never feel that their mother had been erased.
Now Sophie was staring at Rachel with the expression of a child who had heard that voice become cruel many times before.
Ethan took out his phone.
“I’m calling for help.”
Rachel’s confidence cracked.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
He made the call anyway.
Then he brought Sophie and Noah into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and stopped again.
It was full.
Milk.
Fruit.
Eggs.
Leftovers.
Yogurt.
Food everywhere.
The children had not gone hungry because there was nothing to eat.
They had gone hungry because Rachel had decided they should.
Ethan made them simple food while they waited.
