For three weeks, Ethan did the same ritual before work: shower, suit, quick kiss, then he’d stand in our hallway with his shoes on, staring at the front door like it was staring back. At 7:12, he’d whisper, “Not today,” and tap the deadbolt three times. When I asked, he smiled too fast and said it was “just a habit,” but our bank balance didn’t have room for habits.

On the twenty-second morning, I followed him. He didn’t drive to his office. He went past downtown, took the freeway, and parked behind a half-dead strip mall.

He walked to a rusted service door marked FIRE EXIT, slid a keycard, and vanished inside like he’d been doing it forever. Before I even decided what I’d do next, my phone buzzed: “Withdrawal approved — $4,800 — CASH.”

I got close to the door and heard a child laugh—small, bright, real. Through the crack I saw Ethan’s suit jacket on the floor and, beside it, a tiny pair of Velcro sneakers. Then a woman’s voice snapped, controlled: “Shoes off. And don’t call him that.

” A little voice answered, sweet and certain: “But he’s my dad.” My stomach dropped hard enough to make my hands go cold.

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