The number made me dizzy.
I froze, gripping the bag.
Where would a school janitor get that kind of money?
My mind raced through terrible possibilities. Gambling. Theft. Something illegal. Something dangerous.
Had he been stealing from the school? From parents? Was someone going to come knocking on our door?
I imagined police lights flashing against our thin curtains.
I imagined my coworkers whispering.
I imagined our simple, stable life collapsing in one afternoon.
My throat tightened. I felt betrayed, confused, and terrified. And underneath all of it, a sharp sting of hurt.
Why had he not told me?
If this was good news, why hide it? And if it was bad news, why risk everything we built?
I heard the faint creak of the hallway floorboard.
Before I could process it, the bedroom door slowly opened.
He stood there, pale, staring at me.
His eyes dropped to the open duffel bag. For a second, neither of us moved.
“Where did you get this?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He did not answer right away.
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
I noticed his hands were trembling too.
“Meredith…” he began, then stopped.
My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“Where did you get this?” I repeated.
He swallowed. His gaze shifted from the money to my face. There was fear there. And something else I could not name.
“It’s not what you think,” he said quietly.
That was not an answer.
I stood up slowly, the bag still open between us like a wound.
“Then tell me what it is,” I whispered.
He ran a hand over his face. He looked older in that moment than I had ever seen him. Not just tired. Worn down.
“I was going to tell you,” he said.
