The principal’s office smelled like lemon cleaner and lies. I sat across from Mrs. Langston, clutching the enrollment form for Lily’s kindergarten class, pride swelling in my chest. Oakridge Academy was selective—only eight spots. We’d made it.

Then she hesitated. 'Mrs. Howard... there’s something you should know.'

My smile froze. She slid a document toward me. Two names jumped out: David Howard. Parent. And beneath it, two siblings already enrolled—names I’d never heard, birthdates from years ago.

'He listed a different address,' she said gently. 'Same last name. We assumed... family connection.'

My pulse roared. David had been 'overseas' during those years. Or 'at conferences.' Or 'working late.' I believed every excuse. I defended him when I doubted.

Now, the floor tilted.

I stood, vision blurring. 'I need to go home.'

But when I pulled into our driveway, David’s car was there—parked neatly beside mine, like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t erased a decade of his life.

Inside, he greeted me with a kiss. 'Hey, babe. How’d it go?'

I stared into the face of a stranger. And in that moment, I had to decide: play along, or rip the mask off.