PART ONE
Chapter Four: Small Cracks
The first crack appeared so quietly that Margret almost missed it.
It was nothing dramatic—no shouting, no confrontation, no undeniable proof. Just a moment. A pause that lingered too long.
David was in the shower, and his phone lay on the bedside table, screen dark. Margret had come into the room to put away folded laundry. She moved automatically, her mind elsewhere, when the phone buzzed.
Once.
Then again.
Margret froze.
David's phone almost never left his hand. When it did, it sat face-down, silent, as if even notifications were not allowed to intrude. She stared at it now, an unfamiliar tightness forming in her stomach.
The screen lit up briefly.
A name flashed—unfamiliar. No picture. Just a single initial and a heart emoji.
Margret did not touch the phone.
She stepped back as if it might burn her, her heart pounding in her ears. By the time the shower turned off, she had already convinced herself it meant nothing. Work contact. Mistake. Anything.
Still, the image lodged itself in her mind like a splinter.
That night, David was unusually affectionate. He wrapped an arm around her waist while they brushed their teeth, kissed her shoulder absentmindedly, asked about Lucia's day.
Margret responded carefully, matching his tone, though her thoughts were elsewhere. She wondered if this was guilt, or if she was reading into nothing at all.
She told herself she was tired.
The cracks widened slowly, invisibly.
David began guarding his phone like a secret. If Margret entered a room, he tilted the screen away. If Lucia wandered too close, he locked it instantly. He took calls outside, lowering his voice until it became unreadable.
Margret noticed the changes the way one notices a leak—small drops at first, easy to ignore, until the sound becomes impossible to sleep through.
One afternoon, Margret ran into a neighbor at the market.
"You're lucky," the woman said with a smile. "Your husband is always so focused. Men like that don't stray."
Margret smiled politely, her throat tightening.
That night, she watched David across the dinner table. He ate quickly, barely tasting his food, his attention flicking repeatedly to his phone.
"You seem distracted," she said.
"I'm fine," he replied.
"You've said that a lot lately."
David looked up sharply. "Are you accusing me of something?"
The question startled her.
"No," Margret said quickly. "I'm just asking."
He pushed his chair back slightly. "I don't have time for this."
The conversation ended there.
Lucia, silent as ever, watched the exchange closely. She noticed how her mother's shoulders slumped just a little. How her father avoided looking at either of them.
That night, Lucia dreamed of glass breaking.
The cracks deepened.
David started coming home later than usual—sometimes well after Lucia had gone to bed. Margret waited up, pretending to read, listening for the sound of his car. When he finally arrived, he smelled different again—that sharp, unfamiliar scent.
"Long day?" she asked one night.
"Meetings," he replied curtly.
"Every night?"
David shot her a warning look. "You're overthinking."
Margret nodded, though her heart ached. She began to question herself. Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe this was what marriage looked like after years together—routine, distance, exhaustion.
Still, she started keeping track.
Not consciously at first. Just small notes in her mind. Days he left early. Nights he returned late. Times he avoided her touch. Times he seemed irritated by Lucia's presence.
The most painful moments were the quiet ones.
Like the evening Margret found Lucia sitting alone in the living room, drawing.
"Where's Daddy?" Lucia asked without looking up.
"He's working," Margret said.
Lucia nodded. "He's always working."
Margret sat beside her. "He loves you."
Lucia paused, then asked, "Why doesn't he show it anymore?"
Margret's chest tightened. She had no answer that wouldn't break something.
Another crack appeared the night Margret woke to find David missing from the bed.
She checked the bathroom—empty. The living room—dark. Then she heard his voice, low and urgent, drifting in through the open window from outside.
"I told you not to call this late," David said.
Margret stood frozen in the hallway, her heart racing.
"No, she doesn't suspect anything," he continued. "Just… be careful."
Margret stepped back silently, retreating before she could hear more. By the time David returned, she was back in bed, eyes closed, breath even.
He slid in beside her, unaware—or pretending to be.
Margret lay awake, staring into the dark.
Something was wrong. She no longer doubted that.
The cracks were no longer invisible. They ran through everything—their conversations, their silences, even their shared routines.
Yet still, Margret said nothing.
Fear held her tongue. Fear of what she might discover. Fear of what confrontation would cost. Fear of tearing apart the only life Lucia knew.
David sensed the shift in Margret, even if he didn't acknowledge it. Her questions made him uneasy. Her quiet watchfulness irritated him. He began to see her not as a partner, but as a potential obstacle.
He justified his distance easily.
She didn't understand pressure. She didn't understand ambition. She didn't understand what it took to build power.
And besides, he told himself, nothing had truly gone wrong yet.
Lucia, meanwhile, noticed everything.
She noticed the way her mother flinched when the phone buzzed. The way her father avoided eye contact. The way laughter had become rare, fragile.
One night, Lucia stood in the doorway of her parents' bedroom, watching them sit on opposite sides of the bed, not touching.
"Are we still a family?" she asked quietly.
Margret's heart broke.
David answered first. "Of course."
Lucia studied his face, then turned to her mother.
Margret forced a smile. "Always."
Lucia nodded slowly and went back to her room.
But as she lay in bed, she thought about the cracks she couldn't see but could feel—running through walls, through words, through people.
Some things, once cracked, could be fixed.
Others only spread.
And in the quiet of that house, the damage was already happening—slowly, silently, and beyond anyone's control.