“…I saw Daddy helping her get the spiders off.”
My stomach dropped. “Helping her how, Ben?”
He frowned, trying to remember. “He was under there too. He said shhh. The spiders were black and lacy.”
Black and lacy.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Which lady?” I asked gently.
Ben pointed across the room. Near the bar stood a tall woman in a fitted black dress, laughing a little too loudly at something my husband had said earlier.
“That one.”
I looked over at my husband. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I stood up slowly, Ben still in my arms, and walked toward them. My husband stiffened as I approached.
“Everything okay?” he asked, forcing a smile.
I held his gaze. “Ben says he saw you under the table. Helping with… spiders.”
The woman’s smile faltered.
My husband let out an awkward chuckle. “He’s four. You know how kids imagine things.”
Ben shook his head. “No. Daddy said not to tell.”
The silence around us thickened.
A few nearby guests glanced over.
I looked at my husband, the man I had trusted for eight years. At his father’s funeral reception. In a room full of family and business associates.
“Not here,” he muttered under his breath.
“You’re right,” I replied calmly. “Not here.”
I turned and walked out of the restaurant, Ben clinging to my shoulder. I didn’t cry. Not yet.
But as the heavy doors closed behind me, one thing was clear:
Children don’t invent black lace spiders.
