Merry Christmas, You Filthy Cheater

Friday morning arrived with the kind of gray December light that made everything look washed out and lifeless. I stood at the kitchen counter, mechanically buttering toast while Ryan zipped his leather weekend bag behind me.

"So remind me again—why does this client meeting have to be overnight?" I asked, not turning around. The butter was too cold, tearing chunks out of the bread.

"It's not just a meeting, Sarah." Ryan's voice carried that patient tone he used when explaining something he thought I wouldn't understand. "It's a full presentation to their board. We're talking about a multi-million dollar contract. Johnson wants me there early Saturday morning to prep, and the meetings run all day."

I finally turned to face him, taking in his carefully casual outfit—designer jeans, the cashmere sweater I'd given him last Christmas, his expensive hiking boots. "You're wearing hiking boots to a board meeting?"

Ryan glanced down at his feet, then back up with an easy smile. "We might grab dinner somewhere outdoors afterward. You know how these client things go—they like to mix business with leisure."

Everything he said made perfect sense. It always did.

"I just wish the timing was better," I said, gesturing toward the living room where I could hear Emma coughing—the same wet, rattling cough that had kept us all awake for the past two nights. "Both kids are getting worse, and with Christmas next week..."

"They'll be fine." Ryan slung his bag over his shoulder, already moving toward the door. "It's just a cold. Kids bounce back fast."

As if summoned by our conversation, Emma appeared in the doorway, her small face flushed with fever, dark hair matted against her forehead. At six, she still looked so tiny when she was sick, like a wilted flower.

"Mommy, my throat hurts," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

I knelt down and pressed my palm against her forehead. Her skin burned against my hand like a small furnace. "Oh, sweetheart. You're running a fever again."

Ryan checked his watch—a gesture I'd seen a thousand times, but today it felt dismissive. "I really need to get going. Traffic's going to be brutal."

"Daddy?" Emma looked up at him with those big, hopeful eyes that usually melted his heart. "Will you read me a story before you go?"

"Sorry, princess. Daddy has to work." He leaned down for a quick kiss on her forehead, then straightened immediately. "Be good for Mommy, okay?"

Emma's face crumpled, but before she could respond, we heard Tommy crying from upstairs—the kind of wailing that meant his fever had spiked again.

"I should go check on him," I said, lifting Emma into my arms. Her small body felt like dead weight against my chest.

Ryan was already at the door, keys jingling in his hand. "I'll call you tonight, okay? Try to get some rest."

The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded final.

The next twenty-four hours blurred together in a haze of fever-induced exhaustion. Tommy's temperature climbed to 102, and Emma refused to eat anything but ice chips. I shuttled between their rooms, armed with thermometers and cool washcloths, measuring out children's Tylenol in careful doses while my own head began to pound.

By Saturday evening, I felt like I was moving underwater. My limbs ached, my throat scratched with each swallow, and when I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my face was flushed and my eyes glassy.

I was getting sick too.

Tommy finally fell into a fitful sleep around eight o'clock, his fever breaking enough that his breathing evened out. Emma was curled up on the couch, watching cartoons with glassy eyes, her small hand clutching a juice box.

That's when I decided to call Ryan.

I needed to hear his voice. Needed him to tell me everything would be okay, that he'd be home tomorrow to help. Needed some reassurance that I wasn't completely alone in this.

The phone rang four times before he picked up.

"Hey, babe." Ryan's voice sounded distant, distracted. "How are the kids?"

"Not great," I said, sinking into the kitchen chair. Even that small movement made my head spin. "Tommy's fever hit 102 today, and Emma's barely eating. I think I'm getting sick too. My whole body aches, and—"

"That sucks," Ryan interrupted, but his tone was absent, like he was only half-listening. Behind his voice, I could hear something that made my stomach clench—music. Loud music with a heavy bass line, and underneath it, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses.

"Ryan, where are you right now?"

"What? Oh, we're just... the client wanted to grab drinks after the presentation. You know how these things go."

But it didn't sound like a quiet business dinner. It sounded like a party. The music swelled, something upbeat and definitely not background ambiance for a restaurant. I heard a woman's laugh, high and bright, followed by Ryan's own chuckle—warm and genuine in a way I hadn't heard in months.

"Ryan, I really need you to come home early tomorrow," I said, pressing the phone closer to my ear as if that might somehow bring him closer. "I don't think I can handle both kids if I get any sicker, and—"

"Sarah, I can barely hear you," he said, his voice moving away from the phone. "Can I call you back later? This is important for my career, you know that."

The music got louder, and I heard him say something to someone else, his voice muffled as if he'd covered the phone with his hand. When he came back, he sounded rushed.

"Look, just give them some more Tylenol and try to get some sleep, okay? I'll be home tomorrow evening like we planned."

"But Ryan—"

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone in my hand, the silence of my house suddenly deafening after the chaos I'd heard in the background of his call. Client dinner. Business drinks. Important for his career.

So why did it sound like he was at a nightclub?

Emma coughed from the living room, a harsh sound that pulled me back to reality. I dragged myself off the chair, my legs shaky beneath me, and went to check her temperature again. The thermometer read 101.8.

As I tucked her back under her blanket, smoothing her damp hair away from her face, I couldn't shake the sound of that woman's laughter from my mind. It had been so close to the phone, so clear and bright and... familiar, somehow.

Like I'd heard it before.