The Secret in His Pocket

On our son's first day of school, I used my husband’s phone to link his student portal app. A pop-up immediately appeared: *This phone number is already linked to student Leo Chen.* I knew that name all too well. He was my husband’s sister-in-law’s son. My brother-in-law had passed away over a decade ago. My husband always said that as the older brother, he had to look out for them. So every month during his four days off, he would run over to her place. I stared at the screen, my gut screaming that something was wrong. Before I could think any further, my husband stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hair. "What are you looking at?" I turned the phone around toward him. "I can't link our son's school app. The system says you're already registered as Leo Chen's parent." The second the words left my mouth, Dylan’s hand paused on the towel. Then, he casually draped it over the back of a chair, walked over, and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "Oh, that." "Grace is overwhelmed raising him on her own. She always misses the school announcements. Last time Leo had a fever, the teacher posted it in the parent chat and she completely missed it." "She asked me to link it under my number so I could catch anything important." He paused, his fingers giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I meant to tell you, but things have been so crazy busy lately that it completely slipped my mind." With that, he took the towel to hang it up. I stood frozen in place. His explanation was seamless, airtight. Yet a cold, unsettling knot formed in my stomach. I went into the bathroom to wash my face. By the time I came out, he was already lying in bed on his side, scrolling through his phone. The glow of the screen lit up half his face. I laid down beside him and switched off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He rolled over, draped an arm over me, and before long, his breathing turned deep and steady. I stared up at the ceiling. *Leo Chen's parent.* Every month, Dylan took four days off work, and without fail, he spent them over at his widowed sister-in-law's place. I had never stopped him. The year his brother died, Leo was barely a year old. At the funeral, Grace had sobbed so hard she collapsed to the floor. Dylan had held her up, his eyes rimmed with red. On the drive home, he told me, *As his big brother, I have to step up and look after them.* Ever since then, every single time he had time off, he went there. Sometimes it was to fix the plumbing, sometimes to run errands for the kid's school, sometimes just to check in. Occasionally, I couldn't help but wonder why he couldn't use those four days to take our own son to the park. But he never did. I constantly reminded myself that Leo was his late brother's only flesh and blood. It was natural that he couldn't let them struggle. That was what I had told myself for years. But linking the school app? That was strictly for parents. All the school notices, homework assignments, report cards, tuition bills—everything got pinged directly to that phone. I had been married to Dylan for ten years. He had gone through three phones, and every single time, I was the one who transferred his contacts. He hadn't even saved our own son's homeroom teacher's number until this year. Yet he had linked Leo's portal. A mother was too busy, so the uncle stepped in as the official guardian on the school app? It sounded harmless enough. So why did it feel so sickeningly wrong? I tossed and turned until past midnight, completely unable to sleep. Eventually, I got up to use the bathroom. As I brushed past the chair, the sleeve of his jacket hanging over the back grazed my arm. It was his navy jacket, the one I had bought him for his birthday last month. He said it fit him perfectly and had been wearing it almost every day lately. The small pocket on the sleeve looked bulky, with a tiny corner peeking out. Assuming it was a crumpled receipt or loose change that might get ruined in the wash, I pulled it out. It was a small, square foil packet. Cold to the touch. I held it closer in the dim light. It wasn't the brand we used.