“Then how did Daniel get the photograph?”
“I don’t know.”
He reached for my hand.
I pulled it away.
“I need a minute.”
He nodded and let me go.
I walked upstairs, entered our bedroom, and shut the door.
For several minutes, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.
I wasn’t questioning whether Andrew loved me.
I was questioning whether I had ever truly understood him.
He had known what it felt like to be deceived by someone he loved.
He had known the humiliation of discovering that his trust had been used against him.
And he had watched my sister attempt to repeat that experience in our home.
Why had he hidden it?
Because he was ashamed?
Because he feared I would judge him?
Because he believed the truth about his first marriage would change how I saw him?
All of those explanations were possible.
