Chapter 10 - The Hallway Call
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For five incredibly painful minutes on the floor of Harrison’s bedroom, the illusion felt terrifyingly real. We were attempting to wrap a notoriously difficult, oddly shaped toy box. Harrison was awake past his bedtime, climbing aggressively over Julian’s broad back, shrieking with laughter as he crushed shiny red ribbons between his sticky hands.
Julian was laughing, a deep, resonant sound that filled the room. He caught my eye across the wrapping paper and smiled—a genuine, soft smile that made my chest physically ache. We looked exactly like the happy, thriving, upper-middle-class family I had once so desperately believed we were. We looked like a photograph you would put on a holiday greeting card.
And then, the spell broke.
Julian’s phone, resting face down on the carpet, vibrated with a sharp, aggressive buzz.
The laughter died instantly in his throat. He glanced down at the screen, his entire demeanor shifting in a fraction of a second. The devoted father vanished, replaced by the calculating adulterer.
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“I need to take this,” Julian said, his voice suddenly clipped and professional. “It’s London. The time difference is a nightmare.”
He didn't wait for my response. He stood up abruptly, brushing Harrison off his back with a distracted pat, and immediately stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door partially shut behind him. I sat frozen on the floor, holding a piece of Scotch tape, listening to his muffled footsteps retreat down the corridor. He was walking away from his son's laughter to whisper to a woman who was waiting for him in the snow. The illusion was dead, and I was ready to leave the graveyard.
