Jack never took sick days. Not for the flu, not for food poisoning, not even the day his mother died. So when he sat hunched at our tiny kitchen table one Tuesday morning, pale and coughing, and told me he wasn’t going to work, I paused mid-toast.
“You okay?” I asked, flicking the blackened bread into the trash.
“I feel awful,” he rasped.
“You look worse.” I handed him a bottle of Tylenol. “Get back in bed. I’ll handle the kids.”
He nodded weakly, and I went back to the usual morning circus—chasing three kids, packing lunches, shouting reminders. When I finally reached for the front door, Ellie was begging for a pet snake again, Noah was fussing about his science project, and Emma was texting with the focus of a neurosurgeon.
But the moment I opened the door, my brain short-circuited.
There, on our porch, was Jack.
Or… a perfect, life-sized statue of him—white as porcelain, down to the faint scar on his chin and the crook of his nose. I blinked hard. Ellie gasped.
“Is that… Dad?”
I couldn’t answer. My tongue refused to move. Emma’s phone clattered to the floor. Behind us, Jack shuffled into view, still in his robe. He stopped cold.
His face drained to the color of ash.
Without a word, he pushed past us, gripped the statue under the arms, and hauled it inside like a man dragging a corpse. It scraped loudly across the floor.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded, following him. “Who made that? Why is it here?”
“I’ll handle it,” he mumbled, not meeting my eyes.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, Jack.”
“Please. Just… take the kids. I’ll explain everything later.”
His voice cracked. And in ten years of marriage, I’d never seen that look in his eyes—haunted. Cornered.
I stood frozen, then nodded slowly. “When I get back. No dodging.”
He only gave the tiniest nod.
We loaded into the car in silence. Emma scrolled, Ellie hummed. But just before I buckled in, Noah tugged at my coat sleeve.
“Mom,” he whispered. “This was under the statue.”
He handed me a wrinkled piece of paper. My heart sank before I even opened it.
Jack,
I’m returning the statue I made while believing you loved me.
Finding out you’ve been married for nearly ten years destroyed me.
You owe me $10,000… or your wife sees every message.
This is your only warning.
—Sally
Everything stopped. I couldn’t breathe.
I folded it quietly and slipped it into my pocket.
“Did you read this?” I asked.
Noah shook his head. “It felt… private.”
“That’s right,” I said, voice too calm. “It was.”
I smiled at him—one of those fake, mother-smiles that hides everything—and started the car.
By 10 a.m., I’d dropped off the kids, pulled over in a grocery store parking lot, and sobbed until I couldn’t see straight. Then I snapped a photo of the note, pulled out my phone, and searched: divorce attorneys near me. I called the first female name on the list.
