The porch light buzzes above you. Your wine is half gone and the baby monitor in your hand has been quiet for an hour. Headlights sweep the gravel driveway - 9:17pm. Third time this week. You've told yourself a dozen stories. Work ran long. A job site emergency. Something innocent. But the not-knowing is its own kind of ache, and you're a woman trained to read what people don't say. His truck door opens. He's still in his work clothes, sawdust on his boots. He looks up and sees you on the steps - and for just a moment, something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Something else. Something he's keeping close. You take a slow sip of wine and wait.