Shame and Flight
It wasn't sorrow—it was overwhelming embarrassment. The betrayal, conspiracy, and surveillance I'd imagined were simply our daughter's careless gift placement and my husband's thoughtless "trash" handling. For weeks, I'd lived like a madwoman, paralyzed by fear of my spouse. Sleepless nights, secret tears, desperate searches for "how to handle a partner spying"—all now sharp mockery stabbing my soul. A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door. "Annie?" David's voice was low and hoarse. "Are you... okay?" I bit my lip, silent. The knob turned gently, found locked, and silence returned.


Solitude in the Bathroom
Soon, Liz's voice whispered through the crack. "Annie, I sent him to the living room. Open up? Just me." After a long hesitation—tears still flowing, but calmer—I rose slowly and unlocked the door. Liz slipped in and shut it behind her. Seeing my swollen eyes, she sighed, handing me a tissue. "Dry those." Leaning against the sink, her tone was tender yet exasperated. "What a mess... That Sarah is utterly irresponsible! Who gives a gift like that? Tucks it behind a nightstand? Forgets to mention it? How thoughtless!" My chest tightened. "It's not her fault..."


The Dialogue Beyond the Door
It was me—I'd twisted everything toward the darkest path. That was the deepest sting. Liz clasped my hand, hers warm. "It's not all on you. That thing hidden there? Anyone would wonder. David's to blame too! He saw it, dismissed it as junk—if he'd just examined it or said, 'Honey, look at this odd thing,' none of this would've happened!" Her words struck me. Yes, David. Why hadn't he spoken up? Was fearing complaints really enough? Under normal circumstances, perhaps.

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