My name is Daniel. I’m 53, and for the past decade, I’ve raised seven children on my own.
I earned my living restoring furniture. Money was tight, but our children never lacked necessities.
Vanessa, my ex-wife, wasn’t satisfied.
“That woman’s handbag costs more than our refrigerator,” she complained.
“Then let’s hope it keeps her groceries cold.”
“Everything’s a joke to you, Daniel.”
“Not everything.”
“Look at Rob. New car, expensive vacations. Why can’t we live like that?”
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“Rob doesn’t have seven children.”
“There’s always an excuse.”
Rob was my closest friend, someone I trusted enough to give a spare key to our home.
I spent my days repairing damaged furniture, convinced that nearly everything could be restored.
Eventually, I discovered otherwise.
Ten years earlier, a canceled appointment sent me home unexpectedly.
Hearing voices upstairs, I went to our bedroom and discovered Vanessa with Rob.
