A jar of pasta sauce fell from my bag.
It shattered.
Ryan turned.
For half a second, neither of us moved.
Red sauce spread slowly across the tile.
He stared at it.
Then at me.
“Annie.”
“Who are you talking to?”
His face changed.
“Annie—”
“Who?”
He exhaled.
And somehow, that was worse than watching him scramble for a lie.
“Lina.”
My mind refused to understand the name.
“My Lina?”
He said nothing.
“My sister?”Family Law
“Yes.”
I put one hand over my pregnant stomach.
“How long?”
Ryan sat down.
“We didn’t mean for this to happen.”
I still hate that sentence.
People say it as if betrayal is weather.
As if it arrived unexpectedly and everybody simply got caught in the rain.
“How long?”
“Almost a year.”
I stared at him.
Almost a year.
Birthdays.
Christmas.
Family dinners.
My sister sitting across from me.
My husband sleeping beside me.
