It was our tenth year of marriage when Philips Camden was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. One version of him adored me; the other loved someone else—enough to father a child with her.
He brought the baby home and forced me to accept the baby as my own. Every night, I lay awake, torn between rage at his betrayal and the crushing guilt of blaming him for something he couldn't control.
Then I overheard the phone call.
"Phil, what if your wife finds out you're faking?"
His laugh was low. "After tomorrow, once June registers the kid as her own child and gets attached, I'll drop the act. I'll treat her right this time."
