After dinner, Emily knelt by the fireplace, the room heavy with silence. Her son had gone to bed hours ago, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the drawing—the one his teacher had called lazy.
That wasn’t what unsettled her. It was her husband’s reaction.
He had turned white, grabbed the paper from her hands, and without a word, tossed it into the flames.
But something had glinted in his eyes—fear.
Now, as the last embers cooled, Emily sifted through the ash. A scorched corner of the paper clung to her fingers. On the back, faint but legible, were words that did not belong to a child:
“Last night was a mistake. My wife is getting suspicious.”
Her hand trembled.
The pieces clicked together—missed calls, late nights, the sudden shift in his voice when she walked in.
She didn’t cry.
She stood, calmly walked to her desk, and began typing her letter.
“To whom it may concern: I am filing for divorce.”
Because sometimes the truth hides in ashes—and burns brighter than the lie.
