“That’s not—”
“You never forget that bag.”
I stared at him.
“For five years, you have carried it everywhere.”
Then the answer came to me.
“You’ve been leaving it behind during these visits, haven’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Dana placed the ice cream down and pulled out her phone.
“I have the messages.”
Ryan looked alarmed.
“Those are private.”
“They involve my daughter,” I said.
Dana hesitated.
“I don’t need your romantic messages,” I told her. “I don’t want the details.”
I looked directly at her.
“I need to know what decisions he has been making about Chloe without me.”
After a moment, Dana unlocked her phone.
She found the messages and handed it over.
Ryan moved toward us.
“Maeve, don’t.”
“Stay where you are.”
He stopped.
I scrolled.
I ignored most of the romantic conversations.
Then I started seeing Chloe’s name.
Ryan had told Dana that Chloe was “adjusting well” to our separation.
A separation that didn’t exist.
He claimed Chloe understood that Mommy and Daddy were “just friends now.”
He told Dana Chloe’s favorite meals.
Her bedtime routine.
Three books before bed.
A glass of water.
The hallway light left on.
Her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Hops.
Her fear of thunderstorms.
He had given this stranger all the little pieces of my daughter’s life before I even knew Dana existed.
Then I found another message.
Did you paint the spare room?
Dana had replied:
Yellow, like you said. Her favorite color.
There was a photo.
A freshly painted bedroom.
Pale yellow walls.
Then another message from Ryan.
What about a twin bed beneath the window? She likes looking at the stars.
I kept scrolling.
Then I found a photograph of Chloe.
My daughter was sitting at Dana’s kitchen table wearing her pink bicycle helmet.
