I’d been trying to conceive for two months, and she had returned from abroad at exactly the same time.
From her very first day back, every night at eleven, she would call and ask William to sleep beside her.
At first, I argued and even threatened: if William stepped out the door, he shouldn’t bother coming back.
But he always coaxed me gently:
“Anna, Sophia has needed me to stay by her side since childhood. During all those years abroad, she couldn’t sleep without me. Now that she’s back, I can’t just ignore her insomnia.”
When I refused, he promised:
“I’ll only stay with her for three months, I swear. Once the time is up, I’ll never go again.”
“And besides, I told you—Sophia has a phobia of men. Nothing will ever happen between us.”
After hanging up, he kissed my forehead, grabbed his coat, and left.
Tonight, I was glad he went out quickly—because I wanted to see what he had really replaced my folic acid with.
When I opened that cabinet, I tried to comfort myself:
Maybe he secretly swapped it with a more expensive supplement, afraid I wouldn’t buy it for myself.
Inside were several unopened bottles of folic acid. I opened one.
It was exactly the same as Kelly’s.
But behind those bottles, there was another one—unlabeled, no packaging, not even a production date.
Inside that bottle were the pills William had been giving me every day.
I snapped a photo of it and slipped one pill into a sealed bag.
Back in the bedroom, a small drop of liquid William had failed to wipe clean still stained the desk.
Beside his computer stood Sophia’s photo.
William and I were both twenty-five, while Sophia was a few years older. In a few months, she’d turn thirty.
I loved William deeply.
Even though I knew Sophia held a special place in his heart, they had never been together despite knowing each other for so many years.
When William and I first met, he pursued me passionately.
We had been married for three years now and were preparing for a child.
I believed William truly loved me.
With that thought, I quietly wiped the desk with a tissue.
As I tossed the tissue into the trash, I noticed a sheet of paper on the floor—covered in Spanish writing.
William and Sophia had once studied abroad in Spain.
Lately, handwritten Spanish notes kept appearing around the house.
When I asked about them, he simply said they were part of his studio’s research project.
I picked up the page and neatly placed it back on his desk.