Chapter 4 - TRACES OF BLUE
I didn't go straight home.
Instead, I drove to the local pharmacy three blocks from our house—the only 24-hour Walgreens in our neighborhood where Daniel usually bought household supplies.
I walked straight to the pharmacy counter at the back. The clerk on duty was a young man named Tyler, someone I recognized because Daniel occasionally picked up his blood pressure medication here.
"Hi," I said, my voice forced into a calm, pleasant tone. "My husband came in earlier this week—Daniel Brooks. He picked up a few things, but he lost the receipt. I'm trying to balance our accounts. Is there any way you can look up his recent purchases under his rewards number?"
Tyler smiled politely. "Sure thing. What’s the phone number?"
I gave him Daniel’s mobile number. Tyler typed it into his computer, his eyes scanning the monitor.
"Okay, let's see... Tuesday evening at 6:45 PM," Tyler read off the screen. "He bought a pack of Clearblue digital pregnancy tests... a bottle of saline solution... and a novelty prank kit."
I felt my heart stop beating.
"A what?" I whispered.
"A novelty item," Tyler said, pointing at his screen. "It's called 'Positive Proof'—it's a little vial of concentrated synthetic hormone powder used for gag gifts or theater props. It turns any standard pregnancy test positive instantly when mixed with liquid."
The pharmacy around me seemed to spin into a blur of bright lights and towering shelves.
A novelty prank kit.
Synthetic hormone powder.
Daniel hadn't sampled my urine. He hadn't sat in our bathroom crying tears of joy over a miraculous surprise.
He had bought a fake pregnancy compound, spiked a test stick in our bathroom, photographed it beside my candle, and sent it to his mother.
He had orchestrated the entire thing.
"Ma'am? Are you okay?" Tyler asked, looking at me with sudden concern. "Do you need a chair?"
"No," I said. My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from someone else entirely. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, Tyler."
I walked out of the store into the bright morning sunlight.
The fear that had been gripping my chest for the last fourteen hours vanished completely. In its place rose a cold, terrifying, crystal-clear rage.
My husband had staged a fake pregnancy. He had humiliated me in front of his entire extended family. He had gaslit me into believing I was losing my mind, making me question my own body, my own sanity, and my health.
Why?
Why would a thirty-two-year-old software architect go to such insane lengths to convince his mother that his wife was pregnant?
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I got into my car, started the engine, and drove back to our townhouse.
It was time to dismantle Daniel’s little theater piece, brick by brick.
