My parents had been married for thirty years. Three kids. One house. My mother painted every room in that house herself. She planted the garden. She paid bills quietly, fixed things quietly, suffered quietly. My father, Raymond, liked to act like he built everything.
He worked late all the time.
That was the official story.
The actual story was women.
I handed the recorder to my mother the next day.
I knew he was cheating long before anything exploded. I heard late-night calls through thin walls. I saw messages flash across his phone. Once, when I was angry enough, I recorded him talking to one of his mistresses.
I handed the recorder to my mother the next day.
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