I had married Danny not long ago, but soon after, everything changed.

It wasn’t something I could explain easily—just a slow, steady shift in the way we were with each other. We talked about everything. Now, we barely spoke.

Before the wedding, we had never lived together. Spending nights at each other’s places had felt like an adventure, something temporary and exciting.

But living together—really living together—was different. It meant seeing each other at our worst, dealing with messy schedules, and facing problems we never had to before.

I didn’t know how to fix things. Some days, I wanted to try, to reach out, to ask Danny if he felt it too. But I never did.

I was afraid of the answer. I was constantly irritated, snapping over little things, and I hated it. I hated how I was becoming someone I didn’t even recognize.

That morning was like all the others. No good morning kiss. No casual conversation.

We each grabbed something quick for breakfast and got ready in silence. Danny was out the door first, barely looking at me as he left.

I sighed, reaching for my purse when I saw it—his phone sitting on the kitchen counter.

I picked it up, turning it in my hands. I would just drop it off on my way to work. No big deal. But as I lifted it, the screen lit up with a message.

Hi, Daddy.

The message was from someone named Martha.

My stomach dropped. My hands trembled. I stared at the words, my breath catching in my throat.

Who was Martha? And why was she calling my husband Daddy? I was afraid he wouldn’t tell me the truth.