On My 35th Birthday, I Found My Husband Had Been Playing House Next Door for 108 Days novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Roses
On Monica's birthday Dalton skips dinner and kisses the neighbor's cheek on a livestream; Monica finds 108 numbered posts and decides to leave, then hears him whisper on the phone at midnight.
On my thirty-fifth birthday, my husband skipped our dinner to bring the neighbor red roses.
I found out from my best friend, who sent me a link at five thirty with one line.
Is that Dalton?
The account belonged to Wynn, who lived next door.
She had moved in a little over three months earlier with her six-year-old son, and she trained as a competitive aerobic gymnast.
She asked Dalton for rides, for babysitting, for help with a leaking faucet.
I had never minded.
I had brought her a plate of cookies the day she moved in.
I tapped the link.
Wynn stood in a crowded gym with a medal around her neck.
Dalton stood beside her holding a bouquet of red roses.
Someone behind the camera shouted, "Is that your boyfriend?"
Wynn laughed and put her arm around his neck.
"He's the reason I'm here."
Dalton didn't say he was married.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek.
The comments filled with hearts.
You two are adorable.
Marry him already.
Such a good man.
Three hours earlier, I had asked him on the phone why he couldn't make our dinner.
"I'm so sorry, Monica," he'd said, and he'd sounded like he meant it. "Let me make it up to you this weekend."
He told me Bluewater Aquatics needed him until late.
He coached the youth diving team there, and last-minute problems were normal.
So I had believed him.
He came home at eight thirty and dropped his keys on the counter with his left hand.
"Did you eat?"
The little cake sat on the dining table beside two clean plates.
"No. I was waiting for my husband."
"Monica, I said we'd celebrate this weekend."
"You had time to buy Wynn roses."
He stopped. "You watched it."
"I watched you kiss her."
"It was her cheek. She won a regional meet."
"And when they called you her boyfriend?"
"It was a joke."
"You could have said you were married."
His face went hard.
"Wynn is raising a kid alone and training for nationals. Do you know how hard that is?"
"I'm not asking you to stop helping her," I said. "I'm asking why you spent my birthday acting like her boyfriend."
"You always manage, Monica. She doesn't have anyone else."
"I took unpaid leave to drive you to physical therapy. I got you through your coaching certificate. I couldn't have one evening?"
"Because Wynn understands what tonight meant," he said. "You wouldn't get it."
I didn't answer that.
"Don't be dramatic," he said, and went upstairs.
I sat at the table and opened Wynn's training account again.
It was not the personal page I followed.
She had made it right after she moved in, and she had never mentioned it to me.
Her newest photo showed Dalton fastening the medal around her neck.
The caption said: Day 108. Another beautiful memory with my favorite man.
Every post had a number.
I scrolled.
Day 97 was Dalton cooking in Wynn's kitchen while her son, Milo, set the table.
Day 76 was Milo on Dalton's shoulders at the aquarium.
Dalton had told me he was away with the diving team that weekend.
I kept going until I reached the first one.
Day 1.
Dalton knelt beside a half-built bed in Wynn's spare room.
Milo sat next to him holding a screwdriver in his left hand.
That was the afternoon Dalton had told me a parent meeting at Bluewater was running late.
Under the newest post, a stranger had written: Is he your husband?
Wynn had answered: Not yet. But he's already better than most husbands.
Under it, in small gray letters: Liked by Dalton Whitlow.
I took a screenshot of every post, all 108 of them.
Then I searched for divorce lawyers and saved the first number that had good reviews.
I wasn't going to wait for him to explain.
Upstairs, the floor creaked, and then his voice dropped to a whisper.
It was past midnight, and I could hear him say, "Not yet. I told you. Not yet."
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