I smiled, still scrubbing. “Sure, baby. Where do you want to hide?” I asked, glancing back at him.
He went quiet then. Too quiet for a child who had been bouncing off the walls just moments before.
“Just… don’t hide in your bedroom, okay? I’ll find you there right away,” he said, staring down at the tile.
I turned off the faucet and dried my hands slowly. “Why would I hide in there, Mason?”
He kept his eyes on the floor. “Because that’s where Alice always hides. She locks herself in, and I hear noises. But it’s our secret, Mom. I promised her,” he added, his voice dropping at the end.
My dish towel landed on the counter, and every instinct I had flared at once.
I crouched down to his level. “Sweetheart, how often does Alice hide in my room?”
I kept my tone calm, gently explained to Mason that secrets between adults and kids weren’t something we had in our family, and sent him back to his room with a hug. The moment he disappeared, I walked straight to my bedroom.
At first glance, everything seemed fine. Bed made. Curtains straight. Pillows arranged exactly how I always left them.
But something was off, and it took a second to place it.
The bedspread was folded at one corner. I always tucked mine flat. And the room smelled strongly of my good perfume—the one I saved for special occasions. I opened my closet and checked it slowly, hanger by hanger.
Then I froze.
The Paris dress was gone. I hadn’t even removed the tags. My husband had brought it back from a business trip. I hadn’t worn it. I hadn’t shown it to anyone. I’d been saving it for something special.
Alice had been wearing my clothes in my bedroom while I was at work, and my son had been counting to fifty in the hallway. And the question haunting me wasn’t just what Alice was doing in there.
It was whether she was doing it alone.
That night, after Mason was asleep, I called my best friend while pacing the kitchen, lights dim, voice low.
“Sheryl,” she said slowly over the phone when I finally stopped, “what if it’s not just Alice?”
“Don’t,” I said sharply, pressing my palm against the counter.
“I’m just saying… your husband’s been working late. You said he’s been unusually cheerful in the mornings.”
“I said don’t,” I repeated, squeezing my eyes shut.
I didn’t want to think it. I refused to think it. Not him. Not in our own bedroom.
But that night, lying awake staring at the ceiling while my husband slept beside me, I couldn’t stop the thoughts. I reached for my phone and searched for small hidden cameras.
Earliest delivery—three weeks.
Three weeks. And every day, according to my five-year-old, the hide-and-seek game was still happening.
I sat up in the dark and made a decision: I wasn’t waiting three weeks for anything.
I went through the motions the next morning. Watched my husband back out of the driveway, coffee in hand, humming softly. Dropped Mason at school. Drove to the office. Sat at my desk.
At noon, I packed my bag, told my boss I had a fever, and headed to my car.
On the drive home, I called my husband. He picked up on the third ring, his voice slightly distracted. And behind it—music, and a woman laughing.
“Hey! Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m just not feeling well. Are you busy?” I asked, focusing more on the background than his words.
“Kind of. You need anything?”
