I froze.

Then, lighter, coaxing: “I’ll get you that Nintendo Switch you’ve been begging for. Deal?”

I didn’t confront him. Not in front of our son. Later that night, I gently asked Miles what they’d been talking about.

“I can’t tell you,” he whispered. “I promised Dad.”

He nodded when I asked if it was serious.

That was enough. My husband had involved our seven-year-old in keeping a secret from me.

When Malcolm came downstairs later, I said calmly, “I know.”

He looked startled. Claimed Miles had misunderstood. Said he’d found “old letters” in the garage—things from before our marriage. That he didn’t want our son reading them out of context. That he’d burn them.

Something about his tone felt controlled, not embarrassed.

As soon as I heard his electric toothbrush upstairs, I slipped into the garage. I searched shelves, boxes—nothing.

Then I remembered the hidden floor hatch beneath the car.

Inside wasn’t a stack of love letters.

It was a legal document—his father’s will. Or rather, an addendum.

Malcolm would inherit everything—money, property—but only if he had two children.

Suddenly, his urgency made sense. The pressure. The secrecy. The visit the next morning that I’d followed him to—Family Services Center.

He wasn’t having an affair.

He was trying to secure a second child—biological or adopted—to unlock his inheritance.