Grace sat on the cozy living room couch, her hands wrapped around the warm teacup, steam curling upward, as she watched the gentle rise and fall of Robbie Junior’s chest. The toddler lay asleep in his crib, his cherubic face bathed in the soft glow filtering through the curtains. It had been a peaceful afternoon of babysitting while her daughter-in-law, Annie, was at the doctor’s, and Grace relished these moments with her grandson.

With a contented sigh, Grace placed the teacup on the small circular end table beside her. The delicate tablecloth, adorned with intricate patterns, added an air of elegance to the room. A simple flower rested in a dainty vase, casting a faint fragrance that seemed to dance in the air.

As Grace reached for her teacup, her hand brushed against it slightly, causing a momentary imbalance. Panic surged through her, and in her haste to right the teacup, it teetered and then toppled, spilling its contents across the tablecloth in a brown stain that seemed to spread in slow motion.

Reacting swiftly, Grace snatched up the vase with the flower and set it aside, her heart racing. She cursed herself for the carelessness that had led to the mishap. With determined focus, she carefully lifted the tablecloth and hurried to the kitchen, her steps measured and precise. She rinsed the tablecloth under cool water, watching as the tea stain dissolved and vanished down the drain.

With the tablecloth dripping in her hand, she grabbed a towel and returned to the living room, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the spill on the table. Grace gently blotted the moisture, her movements deliberate and methodical. Her hands worked in harmony, absorbing the tea, ensuring not a trace remained on the table’s surface.

As she finished mopping up the spill, Grace’s eyes were drawn to a detail she hadn’t noticed before—the small drawer with its ornate knob, nestled beneath the tabletop, formerly obscured by the tablecloth. A sense of curiosity piqued within her, prompting her to pull the door open. Inside lay a leather-bound journal.

Recognition struck her. This was the journal she had given to Annie two years ago as a Christmas present. Grace’s pulse quickened as she contemplated the pages, her heart battling a mixture of emotions—curiosity, concern, and a gnawing uncertainty.

With trembling hands, she opened the journal to the middle and began to read the entries. A recipe for meatloaf. A note about the need for different curtains. Annie had an elegant hand, but there seemed to be nothing especially personal in the diary, until an entry from two weeks ago:

Luke’s cock was so delicious today. How I love the feel of it, the look of it, the taste of it, and the force of it as it fucks deep deep deep into my greedy cunt. He made me come so good—three times before he flooded me. I tasted him again before he left, unzipping him at the door. Some of my own flavor was on his cock. I think I hear Robbie stirring. I wish he would sleep another hour so I could shower, but I don’t want to shower. I want to feel Luke on my skin and in my cunt and in my heart for another few minutes. Would that be too much to ask?