Chapter 3

3

When Sienna came home, I was sitting on the sofa reading documents.

She kicked off her shoes and put a bag on the table. A bakery logo.

“I brought you something.”

“What is it?”

“Toast.” She opened the bag and set a plastic container in front of me.

It was yellow brioche, sliced neatly, and slathered with peanut butter.

Peanut butter.

In third grade, the first time I ate peanut butter, I broke out in hives within ten minutes.

My throat swelled, and I almost suffocated.

I still remember the emergency room―the sound of my mother crying in the hallway before the procedure to open my airway.

During our first year of marriage, Sienna used to remind waiters “no peanut butter.”

The second year, she forgot twice.

The third year―she brought peanut butter toast home and handed it to me.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m allergic.”

Her mouth hung open for a second.

“To peanut butter?”

“Yes.”

“Oh―I forgot. Sorry.” She pulled the box back without missing a beat. “I’ll just eat it then.”

She stuffed a piece into her mouth and started typing on her phone.

Probably messaging Silas.

The speed of her thumbs on the screen was much faster than her speech tonight.

I leaned back and watched her.

“Sienna.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ve been married for three years.”

“I know.” She kept typing.

“You don’t remember what I’m allergic to.”

Her fingers paused for a heartbeat. Then she resumed.

“My memory’s just bad. I’ll be careful next time.”

She sounded like she was brushing off a nagging child.

She didn't ask how I was feeling.

She didn't notice the three extra teacups on the coffee table that weren't mine.

She didn't notice the stack of papers by the shoe rack―the ones titled “Statement of Marital Property.”

I stood up, went into the study, and closed the door.

I opened my laptop.

On the screen was a list of evidence I had compiled over the week.

Item 1: Forty-seven screenshots of Silas’s Instagram posts. Over the past two years, Sienna had appeared in his life in various ways―dinners, trips, karaoke, and napping on his couch.

Item 2: Eleven posts from Sienna’s private account. Every one of them was a judgment against me. Eight mentioned what Silas was doing. Four mentioned how “useless” I was. Zero mentioned my name.

Item 3: WhatsApp logs. She had logged into her account on my iPad and forgotten to sign out. The sync caught everything.

The group chat was titled “The Roast Session.”

Six members: Sienna, Silas, her brother, her mother, and two unknown accounts.

The latest message was from early yesterday morning.

Silas had posted a video. Sienna was disheveled, holding a wine glass and laughing uncontrollably.

Silas’s voice was in the background: “Sienna, turn around a bit. I can't see you clearly. Yeah, that’s the angle. Gorgeous.”

Her brother replied: “Is the brother-in-law around?”

Silas: “Yeah. He’s at home cooking for her.”

Her mother sent a laughing emoji.

I shut the laptop.

A message from Dominic popped up: “Evidence chain finalized. Silas’s workplace address confirmed. We can go to the oversight committee tomorrow.”

I replied with one word: “Good.”